Subject: Thaxted - Part 1 Date: Sun, 17 Jun 2001 13:42:28 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 1 [Author's note: One point of divergence used in what-ifs is to take historical characters and have them grow up in a different locale. Examples of such what-ifs include 'Rainbow France' and 'General Secretary Reagan'. Generally these alternative histories explore how these characters, with unchanged personalities, adapt to their alternative surroundings. [But would the characters of these figures remain unchanged? Is character simply a question of heredity, with environment playing no part? Or can the streets you play in, the fields and woods you walk through, the playmates you chase, have a bearing on your personality? [What if a famous person was to be moved less that 100 miles within their own country? That couldn't make any difference, could it?] Peggy's first memory was of a sunny day and being pushed in a pram by her mother through the bustling streets of the town and along to the park. The color and movement and noise were not disturbing to the young girl but entrancing. What a wonderful place this big world was! Peggy loved Grantham. The comfortable bustle of the family's first shop below their home, the ready availability of her parents and elder sister Muriel, friends at Kesteven and Grantham Girl's School, kindly Rev. Skinner from the chapel, and rambles through the hills overlooking the town. Beatrice knew how much her younger daughter loved Grantham and how strong minded she could be. She daren't leave matters until the formal announcement at the dinner table that night and decided to have a quiet world with Peggy while Alfred was still serving customers downstairs. "I have some very exciting news dear and I need you to be brave. A man has offered your father a good deal of money for his shops. At the same time a wonderful business opportunity has opened up down in Essex. In a beautiful town called Thaxted. Of course, it'll mean we'll have to move to Thaxted but there are some lovely houses there. Isn't that nice?" Peggy replied in the high pitched voice of a ten year old, "Thaxted sounds like a horrid name. I'm sure I'll hate it." Beatrice pressed on gamely, "Now Margaret. What have I said about jumping to conclusions and making up your mind before you know all the facts? There are some very good schools there. We've picked out one for you and Muriel." "But I've already got lots of friends at KGGS." There was an uncomfortable silence. Beatrice forced a smile. "I'm sure you'll make lots of new... Peggy's voice rose an octave. "If you'll just let me finish. I've got lots friends at KGGS. And I've heard about southerners. They make fun of the way you speak." Beatrice spoke sternly. "Margaret Hilda Roberts, I've never known you not to be able to do anything you've turned your mind to. If you want to speak with an Essex accent then so you shall. Now, no more nonsense. And all smiles when Father speaks of Thaxted at the dinner table tonight!" * * * * Alfred Roberts had gone ahead to attend to business and purchase the new family home. A number of letters and telegrams had passed backwards and forwards. Beatrice had insisted on a photograph before the purchase had been completed. Alfred was waiting at the station when the others arrived. The porter carried the bags into the motor-car. The remaining possessions would be coming down by lorry in tea chests. The girls oh-ed and ah-ed over the shiny new motor-car. Beatrice looked slightly dubious, the vehicle looked too expensive for something a good Methodist should drive. "Not to worry love," Alfred reassured her, "I bought it cheap from a proper gentlemen. Essex is full of them." They drove from the station through the town. Muriel was immediately struck by what looked like a cathedral. "Father! What's that?" "Oh that? That's the Church of St John the Baptist, Our Lady and St Lawrence, if you please ." Alfred was displaying the prior knowledge he had gained by being the family vanguard into Thaxted. "Church of England," he added dismissively. Muriel's eyes lit up. "It's huge." "St. Wulfram's back in Grantham has the sixth highest steeple in England," Peggy piped up. "Hush, don't be a know-it-all," her big sister chided. "St Wulfram's was ugly, this is beautiful." "That's the first step to Rome, that is," Albert said in final tones. "The Rev Wakeman had me over for a cold supper last Sunday at the manse after the evening service. Apparently folks at St Everybody's have incense *and* Saturday night confession." Suitably scandalized the rest of the family lapsed into unaccustomed silence. But Peggy noticed Muriel sneaking a backwards glance at the edifice. She was surprised her elder sister hadn't turned into a pillar of salt. [If you'll just let me continue.] - Syd -- "Sorrow for sins that for vengeance have cried" - Patrick Appleford Subject: Thaxted - Part 2 Date: Fri, 29 Jun 2001 15:16:55 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 2 "Hunger, to a certain extent, is a very good thing." - Sir F. Fremantle MP (Cons.) Hansard, November 1936 In the end it was the blue uniforms that did it. Muriel had long desired to defy her parents' wishes by attending St John's. The local chapel was dying on its feet. If the Bishop's Stortford Methodist Circuit could be considered a chain then the Thaxted chapel was, to coin a phrase, the weakest link. Anyway, most of Muriel's friends from Saffron Walden Girl's Grammar, that she and Peggy attended, worshipped at St John's. The ones that lived in Thaxted, anyway. Yet Muriel, liked most teenaged girls, was a collectivist. She had no desire to strike out on her own but needed an ally in her delicate struggle with her parents. Her younger sister was her desired partner. But Peggy was not the sort of eleven year-old to defy parents such as Albert and Beatrice. Not even the opportunity to spend more time with her SWGG friends. So Muriel mentioned the Girls' Friendly Society. She made it sound as exciting as Albert's stories of his Rotary club. The clincher was the blue uniforms. Even as a toddler Peggy's favorite color had been blue. Blue was the hue of Kesteven and Grantham Girl's School, of blessed memory. Peggy's new SWGG uniform was a horrid mustard. At the dinner table that night, Peggy had asked if she might join the Girls' Friendly society. Beatrice was unsure. The Roberts were a good Methodist family. Peggy explained that the GFS was "international, non-profit organization for girls and young women, with membership open to girls from the ages of 7 - 21 of any race, religion, or nationality(1)". Albert was delighted. It sounded just like good old Rotary. * * * * Wednesday evenings at St John's hall were not a problem. Peggy and Muriel attended for three weeks and were inducted into a program of crafts, games, storytelling, prayer and sisterhood. As well as meeting with friends from SWGG they also made new friends from girls who attended the local school or one of the many Chelmsford schools. The sisters learned that once a month the GFS would have a 'church parade' with their male equivalent, the Church of England Boys Society. The next such parade would on the twenty-third. Muriel and Peggy asked if the family could worship at St John the Baptist, Our Lady and St Lawrence's that Sunday, instead of the normal morning service at the Chapel. Albert was feeling a little peeved that although a lay preacher, the Rev. Wakeman, still hadn't invited him to address the congregation. So, against his better judgment he agreed. * * * * The sermon as St John's was pure communism, of course. Albert and Beatrice had expected nothing less. This was the 1930s. Most padres had a reddish tinge. Even the Roberts' family friend, the Rev. Charles Skinner, was prominent in the 'Peace Ballot' movement. But the friendship with the Rev. Skinner and his wife were based on common ties of religion, not politics. Albert Roberts was a strong believer in re-armament. The British had taught the Red Bolsheviks a lesson in 1919 but the Liberal government had not allowed the Tommies to stay behind to finish the job(2). The day of reckoning with Stalin and the other dictators was coming and Britain had to be ready. So it wasn't the marxism in the homily to which Albert objected. When the Rev Conrad Noel said, "We must create the demand for the Catholic Faith, the whole Catholic Faith, and nothing but the Catholic Faith. We must encourage the rising of the people in the might of the Risen Christ and the Saints, mingling Heaven and earth that we may shatter this greedy world to bits!" Albert could cope with 'rising of the people' and 'shatter this greedy world to bits'. One expected that in church. But why all this capital-C 'Catholic' stuff? On top of that there was all the business the Rev Noel did with the hood of his alb. The candles. Taking the Holy Bible walkies. And calling Holy Communion 'the Mass' instead of 'the Lord's Supper' as God had intended. After the pantomime was over, and they were leaving the magnificent building, Albert steeled himself to shake the vicar's hand. "Call me Father Conrad." That was it. When the family was standing by the car he announced, "We are never going to that terrible place again." Muriel went white. Beatrice looked about to say something but bit her lip. But Peggy surprised them all. "I hate you!" she shouted at Albert, burst into tears and ran down the lane. Albert was about to run after her but Beatrice gave him a why-did-you-do-that look and placed a warning hand on his arm. "Margaret is running toward home, let's just follow her in the car." It was an odd procession. By the time the vehicle had caught up with Peggy, her pace had slowed to a rapid walk. Hot tears were still running down her cheeks. She refused her mother's entreaties to enter the car. And so Peggy and the car proceeded to the Roberts' home at a walking pace. Inside the car, an accommodation was being reached between Muriel and her parents. The girls could continue to attend GFS. They could attend St John's for church parade but no more than one Sunday a month and not when it was a 'special occasion' at the chapel. Muriel rolled her eyes in the back seat and thought the 1930s equivalent of 'as if'. She was sure the Thaxted chapel hadn't had a special occasion since 1927. Once home, Peggy ran to her room before her father could order her there. After luncheon Muriel sneaked upstairs to explain the modus vivendi that had been reached with their parents. Peggy joined the rest of the family for cold supper that night and nothing more was said about her outburst of the morning. Nor did she share the thoughts that had been flowing through her head that hungry afternoon. * * * * The next Wednesday Muriel and Peggy attended GFS once more. Mrs Noel introduced the curate, Father Jack Putterill, who told the girls about the Spanish Civil War. The real story, not what they might have been reading in the newspapers. They mustn't think the Republicans were opposed to the teachings of Christ, oh no. It was still light as the girls were trudging home. "Isn't he dishy?" asked Muriel. "Who?" began Peggy, without thinking. "Oh, Father Jack. He's not as clever as Father Conrad. Do you remember last Sunday when Father Conrad said 'In the battles that will have to be fought against the forces of death, whether frankly reactionary or masquerading as State Socialism and Social Reform, we must ally ourselves with the forces of life, and with St. Ambrose of Milan, with St. Thomas of Canterbury, with Our Lady of the Magnificat.'?" Muriel yawned. "Yes, I remember. But Margaret, you'll find there comes a time when you better remember how a man looks than what he says." Peggy trembled with revulsed foreboding. Could one be more concerned with outward appearance than with what people thought, who people really were? What a horrid thought. When she grew up she would endeavor to be on guard against such superficiality. [If you'll just let me continue.] (1) This is consistent with http://www.gfsusa.org/ . However, in the less PC^h^h inclusive 1930s the GFS may have been more sectarian, in which case young Peggy is being economical with the truth. (2) In 1919 David Lloyd-George led a coalition government which was primarily Conservative. However Albert Roberts, a lifelong Conservative, appears to believe that appeasement is always somebody else's fault. - Syd -- "Oh, better far to live and die/ Under the brave black flag I fly, Than play a sanctimonious part/ With a pirate head and a pirate heart. Away to the cheating world go you/ Where pirates all are well-to-do;" - William S Gilbert Subject: Thaxted - Part 3 Date: Sun, 01 Jul 2001 12:56:42 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 3 "I think it is well also for the man in the street to realise that there is no power on earth that can protect him from being bombed. Whatever people tell him the bomber will always get through, and it is very easy to understand that, if you realise the area of space. The only defence is offence, which means that you have to kill more women and children more quickly than the enemy..." - Sir Stanley Baldwin, 1932 "You think, as is your wont, my lord, of Gondor only,' said Gandalf. 'Yet there are other men and other lives, and time still to be. And for me, I pity even his slaves.'" - JRR Tolkien, 'The Return of the King' There was so much to do in the Thaxted of the late 1930s. Musical festivals, folkloric gatherings, maypole and Morris dancing. The Conrads were buffs and encouragers of English traditions so that even if you weren't a Marxist-Leninist there was still plenty to enjoy. Peggy's first boyfriend was Stephen Doyle. He went to a different school, Chelmsford Boys Grammar, but lived only one street away in Thaxted. The Doyle's were very active at St John's and Stephen was an enthusiastic member of CEBS, the Church of England Boy's Society. At 14, he was in his final year as an 'Esquire' and was soon to become a 'Knight'. He was showing Peggy his merit badges. Most, like his cycling and camping badges, had come from the church supplies store in London. But a couple, Agit-prop and Leninist Studies, were hard to come by and had been hand-sewn by Mrs Noel, the vicar's wife. Peggy was deeply envious. In 1938 the Girls' Friendly Society had no merit badges.(1) Not for the first time she was struck by the basic inequalities between male and female in contemporary Western society. * * * * The summer of 1939 was idyllic. Peggy was enjoying her studies, especially chemistry. She had friends at school, in town and at GFS. The only black spot on the horizon was her worsening relationship with her father. Oh, and the actions of that madman, Hitler, in Germany. The trouble was, he was so _reactionary_! The other day at the breakfast table he was criticizing St Henry VIII. "Killed 70,000," her father pronounced, "typical C of E!" "That's so unfair!" Peggy had protested. "If you count all the criminals executed over a 38 year reign, that's barely five a day. I would have thought 'chop off their heads, it's the only language they understand' would have been a sentiment after your own heart. But if you're going to say that St Henry personally authorized all 70,000 deaths I'm going to have to ask for a cite!" "Cite?" asked Albert dazedly. It was not a word he encountered much in his day-to-day life as a prosperous small businessman and a Methodist lay-reader. "Well what about Queen Anne Boylen and Queen Catherine Howard? He gave the orders for those executions." "Oh, Daddy! These women were proven to be unfaithful to him. If Mummy committed adultery you wouldn't just stand quietly by. You'd do something, wouldn't you?" Albert looked to Beatrice. Beatrice looked straight back at him. There seemed to be no safe answer to that question. Albert let the C of E baiting lapse. * * * * Peggy had let her ideological loyalties transfer from her father to another elderly authority figure, the Rev Conrad Noel. In truth Father Noel's political stance was just as inchoate and visceral as Albert Roberts'. But Peggy put her analytical mind to the task of assembling a coherent world view from the bits and pieces. This task was still underway when the terrible event occurred. On August 23 Vyacheslav Molotov and Joachim von Ribbentrop signed the Pact of Steel. This event divided the town like none other. Even the Battle of the Flags had drawn the townsfolk, by and large, closer together. "A betrayal of the workers of the world," said Father Conrad. "A necessary action to preserve the Revolution in Russia at a time of capitalist decadence and weakness in the face of the Nazi threat," said the Rev John Putterill, better known as Father Jack. The townsfolk aligned themselves either with Father Conrad or Father Jack except for a few independents like Albert Roberts who had their own take on matters. Subsequent events, the German invasion of Poland, the British declaration of war, and the Soviet occupation of Eastern Poland only widened the divide between the Noel and Putterill factions. This division was most keenly felt in the Thaxted rectory, where Father Jack was Father Conrad's curate and son-in-law. Mrs Putterill, as a daughter and wife, felt the division most keenly. Yet others were hurt in these dark times too. An angry Peggy Roberts confronted Stephen Doyle by the abandoned Webb's windmill. "How dare you take Father Jack's side in this!" "But Peggy! The Soviet Union is the only communist nation of note. If it fails to act in its own interest and it falls, then there is no home for revolution!" "The home for revolution should be in our hearts! Working people everywhere can be revolutionaries, not just in Russia. If Stalin cozies up to the Nazis then, then... he's no better than Hitler!" Peggy realized she had gone too far but she had said it. Stephen pulled himself up to his full height. "If that is what you think, then there's nothing more to say," he declared. He walked off without a backwards glance. They had parted brass rags. Peggy was heart-broken. But more than that, she was cross with herself. Stephen had been so handsome, it had blinded her to the fact that he was nothing but a Third Internationalist. Hadn't she not promised herself earlier that she would look for the real person and not the superficial? * * * * In a way it was good that Muriel was now living and working as a nurse in Birmingham. She had always been fond of Father Jack although not an ideological acolyte. So mealtime conversations at the Roberts' were not as fraught as they might have been. In fact, Albert was rather pleased with how his little girl was growing up. It being a Saturday he was looking up from a copy of The Times. On weekdays the Roberts took The Telegraph but Albert thought it important to get a variety of viewpoints. When he pontificated about these terrible pro-Moscow Reds and their 'stop the Imperialist war' nonsense, she agreed that the Nazis must be fought to the bitter end. True, when he suggested that what the Russians needed was a new Tsar of the Orthodox faith over them, that nice young Greek prince Phillip perhaps, she seemed a little distant but what teenager wasn't moody from time to time? * * * * Over in the Rectory, the news that Trotsky had been killed by a GRU icepick, set relations from chilly to icy. * * * * Peggy wasn't attending GFS any more. Her Wednesday nights were spent in a Services canteen, serving buns and tea to RAF ground crews from nearby Essex air fields. Even so, she still saw Father Conrad frequently - he saw her as a women of promise and took time to mentor her. He asked her about her future directions. She explained that she saw herself as a chemist. "I'm good at Chemistry at school. And there's so many exciting things happening in Chemistry today - discovering the secrets of the atom, new materials like plastics." Father Conrad hemmed and hawed, "The worker's paradise is going to need chemists, it's true. And I'm sure you'll make a first class chemist, if that's what you want." If that's what I want? thought Peggy. Out loud she asked, "What else could I be?" "You have a fine mind but a finer conscience. Best of all, you are unafraid to speak your mind. Any brilliant woman can be a chemist but few have what it takes to be an advocate." "An advocate?" "A lawyer. Specifically, a barrister." Peggy was confused. "But barristers are money-bags. Or leastwise in the pay of money-bags. They are hired mouths for privilege, for capitalists and land-owners." "Mostly so," Father Conrad conceded. "Which is why it is so important to redress the balance. There is still work to be had for a militant barrister, whether in government service or working for the trade unions." Peggy promised him that she'd think about it. She had a lot to think about. In 1941 the Blitz was lessening but there was other worrying news. Hitler, in an act of bad faith, had turned on his former ally Stalin. If only Stalin could have been resolute in 1939. But no use crying over spilt milk. The newspapers were showing the German advance was faster than that against France. The people of Russia, the soldiers, workers, peasants and intellectuals, seemed brave enough. "Braver than the French at any rate" she could hear her father's voice in her mind. But bravery was not enough against a pitiless war machine. The last, best hope for freedom seemed to be America. But Roosevelt, that tool of the plutocrats, seemed blind to the dangers. German soldiers were even advancing in Russia using Ford trucks built under license. The US would be the last to be attacked, and the last to fall, but fall they would, foolish victims of their own short- sightedness. Truly, the capitalist will sell the rope by which they will be hung, she thought. It was with such heavy thoughts in her heart that see opened that tool of the oppressors, The Daily Telegraph, one winter Monday. She read the headline 'JAPS ATTACK US FLEET AT HAWAII - 3,000 Dead'. She clutched the paper to her breast and exclaimed, "Rejoice! Rejoice!" [If you'll just let me continue.] (1) In the more individualistic and recognition oriented 21st century, such badges now exist. Often sewn onto sleeping bags, I'm given to understand. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 4 Date: Sun, 15 Jul 2001 16:12:51 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: alt.test, soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 4 [Author's note: Some tender readers have expressed concerns that 'Thaxted' may turn into a dystopia. Let me hasten to reassure them. 'Thaxted' merely describes an alternative timeline, the result of the Roberts' family moving 80 miles south. Consequently, some events in this alternative timeline are different from our own. But to speculate that these events are 'worse', or indeed 'better', would involve value judgments. The events are just different, that's all. We now return you to the Anglo-Catholic Trotskyite Morris Dancing...] (Friday, May 1, 1942) It was a May Day to remember. Despite the war, despite rationing, the people of Thaxted spared no efforts in their celebrations. May pole dancing. Morris dancing. The playing of the music of Thaxted's favorite son, Gustav Holst. Especially his piece named for the town. Normally Father Conrad Noel only allowed 'Thaxted' to be played as an instrumental. He considered the lyric that accompanied the tune, 'I Vow to Thee, My Country', to be imperialist claptrap[1]. This year he relented, because of the war, and allowed the song to be sung in St John the Baptist, Our Lady and St Lawrence at the special May Day mass for the feast of Jesus the Worker. But it was still the Red Flag that flew from the steeple of St John's with its hand-stitched slogan of 'He hath made of one blood all nations'.[2] St John's steeple was no place for the Union Jack, even in war time. There are limits. (Wednesday, May 13, 1942) Peggy came home from the services canteen, where she had been serving refreshments to RAF other ranks, to find her father busying himself on the dining table that was now covered with pamphlets. "Oh, hullo Margaret! These are just in. Brochures for the by-election." Albert Roberts held up one of the flyers. It had a red banner at the top. Some of the ink from already folded pamphlets had stained his finders. Albert looked at his fingers in disappointment. "It was the best colored ink we could get. I would have preferred blue. Rationing!" Peggy remembered. The special election that was being held next month because old what's-his-face had died. There was getting to be a number of these. Well, it was only to expected. There hadn't been a general election since 1935. Some of those elected were no spring chickens back then and were now 7 years older. No wonder they were dropping off the twig. Albert resumed his folding enthusiastically. Face down, bottom third over the middle third then fold the top third down. "This'll be your first real election, Margaret. We were moving house back in '35. Fortunately Sir Stanley[3] won without us. And there was a by-election in our old constituency of Grantham a month ago. Some independent beat Sir Arthur Longmore. Well, we won't have an independent beating Richard Hunt!" He held up a folded leaflet with a photograph of the said Richard Hunt's face visible. "Particularly when this independent is fresh out of the Communist Party." "Who is he?" Peggy asked. "Chap with a foreign name. Dry-rot-sky or somesuch." Albert noticed Peggy moving to go upstairs. "I say Margaret! Will you give me a hand with these?" "I'm sorry Father, I've simply loads of Latin homework to do. I musn't allow my work in the NAAFI to let me get behind in my studies." With this Peggy fled upstairs. It _was_ almost true. Although she had completed he homework before going out, some more revision wouldn't hurt. The examinations would be soon. It wasn't just any university she had applied to enter but Oxford. (Saturday, May 17, 1942) There was a small sign in Green's the butchers: "Independent Candidate for Maldon, Tom Driberg, to speak at St John's 2pm Sunday 18 May on 'The Way Ahead'. Free admission." Peggy was running errands for her mother, Beatrice. One didn't buy meat from the butcher's these days - coupons for a family of three would barely get you enough mince to hide behind a postage stamp. Instead Peggy bought cheese and, a luxury, real eggs. These days they didn't have a Sunday joint as the Sabbath mid-day meal but Macaroni Cheese à la Canadien. Driberg. This must be the foreign-sounding independent her father had told her about. Father Conrad would know what was going on. She decided to call into the vicarage on the way home. * * * * The Driberg candidacy had gone some way to healing the rift in the vicarage. Father Jack approaved on Tom Driberg because the candidate had been a member of the Communist Party of Great Britain. Father Conrad approved of Driberg because he was an *ex*-member of the CPGP. In a way the candidate was a symbol of each priest's hopes for the future. Father Jack opened the vicarage door to Peggy's knocking and invited her in. Father Conrad was delighted that she'd come to ask about the morrow's speech. "Tom specifically asked if there was a young person who could show him around the town tomorrow morning. You know, give him a feel for the place before he speaks." (Sunday, May 18, 1942) After Matins, Peggy came to the vicarage door, as arranged. A slightly beady-eyed gentlemen in a gray flannel suit opened the door. "You must be Mr Driberg. I'm to show you around Thaxted." Tom's lips formed a faint moue of displeasure as his eyes took in the length of Peggy's blond hair and the unmistakable form of her figure despite the severe cut of her coat. "So you're Roberts, then?" "Yes sir. Peggy Roberts." Tom forced a smile that he did not feel. He'd asked for a young, politically active person to show him around but he hadn't expected a girl. And this one _was_ a girl, she could only be sixteen or so. Usually the young men who escorted him were a good two or three years older than that. "Well, normally I get my guides to show me the public lavatories first thing but in this case... ah... can you show me your famous windmill, young Peggy?" Peggy took Tom to Webb's Mill and, with a series of "if you'll just let me continue"s, showed him the old Guild Hall and all the other landmarks of the town before returning him to the cathedralesque splendor of St John's. Tom thanked Peggy profusely at the end of the walk. "You conduct a very good tour, for a girl." Peggy drew herself up to her full height. "Girl? I'm not a girl! I'm a conductrix!" [Postscript] Tom Driberg won Maldon on June 25 by 5993 votes, the same margin of votes as in our timeline. It seems that Albert and Peggy Thatcher's campaigning efforts must have exactly cancelled the other out. [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] The Western hemispherically gifted among my tender readers may be unfamiliar with the words and music. These can be found at: http://www.cyberhymnal.org/htm/i/v/ivow2the.htm [4] [2] The Acts of the Apostles, chapter 17, verse 26. [3] Sir Stanley Baldwin. Britain has had a regular turn-over of Prime Ministers since then, despite the lack of general elections. [4] "This hymn is not appropriate for a wedding, unless you happen to be a princess marrying the future king. Likewise, this hymn does not seem appropriate for a funeral, unless you were that princess." http://www.oremus.org/hymnal/i/i039.html - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 5 Date: Sat, 21 Jul 2001 15:26:11 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 5 "Anthony Wedgwood Benn, then Lord Stansgate, then Tony Wedgwood Benn, now Tony Benn. Jimmy's got so many aliases one would think he was hiding from the Police." - Tony Crosland Peggy's days at Oxford were among the happiest of her life, for a variety of reasons. Firstly, there was the freedom of living at Somerville college, rather than in the restrictive atmosphere of Number 2, Weaverhead Close, Thaxted. Father could be so _reactionary_! Secondly, there was the intellectual thrill of studying law, of examining cases and precedents and the structure and formation of the law itself. Thirdly, there was the broader intellectual thrill of Oxford, the student societies and activities. Foremost of these was the Labour Club. It was there Peggy began 'the Programme' with a cell of likeminded students, an attempt to restore the Labour Party to its true Socialist roots. Not Fabian socialism, that sterile offspring of George Bernard Shaw and Lord Passfield, with its gradualism and its in-the-long-runs. But true, revolutionary socialism, of the kind betrayed by the Tankies of the CPGB and their slavish devotion to Stalinist bureaucracy. Peggy felt lucky to be in Oxford at all. When she had first sat her exams in 1943 she was told that she had not won her scholarship. She had been forced to spend a further year at Saffron Walden Girl's Grammar. She won her elusive scholarship the following year and in late August 1944 found herself at Somerville college, Oxford. Peggy faced the prospect of only being able to study a two year wartime degree, as should would be called up for national service after she had turned twenty. Then, in May 1945 something wonderful happened. Hitler was defeated and the war was over. Oh, there was still some fighting out East but for all intents and purposes there was peace. It also meant that the threat of national service was removed and she could complete her law degree. Peace meant changes at the University. Many demobbed servicemen came to the college, to continue or take up studies. Some of these joined the Labour Club. This was where Peggy met Jimmy. * * * * It wasn't just demobbed servicemen coming to Oxford at wars end. With the Atlantic safe to cross, wealthy American parents could once again send their heirs to Oxford, a school that had more cachet in those days than either Harvard or Yale. One such heiress was Caroline Middleton de Camp. "If you're not a radical socialist with strong Marxist tendencies at age 20 you haven't a heart," as Guisot so nearly said.[1] And Caroline Middleton de Camp was certainly a big-hearted woman. Big-hearted she may be, but she was so illogical thought Peggy. Caroline's criticism of Marxists was that they were 'sectarian'; unable to respect or truly cooperate with others on the left. The debacle of Spain, the betrayal of the followers of Durutti, the inept Molitov-Ribbentrop pact - these all showed the damage Communists could cause when they made opportunistic alliances or betrayals rather than showing solidarity with other working class movements. The flaws Caroline had advanced were not of Marxism, of course, but of that perversion of Marxism - Stalinism. Peggy responded by noting that there could only be one best way to advance the interests of the working class and that, scientifically, was Marxism. The other ideologies of other movements were by definition inferior and had to be supplanted. "If you really believe that, Peggy, why do you belong to the Labour Club and not the Trotskyist Club?" Caroline asked, not unreasonably. "The ideology of the Labour Party must inevitably become Marxist," Peggy explained, "yet until we achieve this historically inevitable position the Labour Party is still the largest mass-movement working class organization in Britain. If we are to achieve True Socialism the easiest path is through the Labour Party." One thing Caroline and Peggy did agree on was that the Atlee government represented, at best, a step in the right direction and that the government's implementation of their manifesto could in no wise be described as True Socialism. It was from this conversation that a certain cooling occurred in the friendship between these two gownswomen. It may have been due to Peggy's adversarial, entryist attitude to the Labour Party. Or it could be due to Jimmy. * * * * Jimmy was attracted to both Peggy and Caroline. Peggy was prettier but Caroline was ideologically closer. An older Jimmy could have made the choice more easily. But at 20 he still had a residue of the raging hormones of adolescence and both women seemed desirable. There was plenty to be said for Peggy. Intelligent, attractive, articulate, socialist and female. What was not to like? Peggy cast a far more calculating eye at Jimmy. He was wet, truly no more than a Fabian no matter how much he protested the label. He was also... someone charitable might call him eccentric. Albert Roberts would call him 'cracked'. But the Hon Anthony Wedgwood Benn represented entrée into a world of privilege and power. But Jimmy liked Caroline and Caroline liked him. Who to invite to the Commem Ball? Jimmy had rather made up his mind to invite Caroline. Kenneth Harris, along with Edward Boyle one of Jimmy's close friends at Oxford, urged him to take exactly that course. And so he did. Edward tried to invite Peggy to the same ball but she declined, perhaps from disappointment, perhaps from pique or perhaps... she had other plans. "Cheer up, we'll just have to go as a couple of old bachelors!" said Kenneth to Edward. * * * * Jimmy thought he would be going to the ball with Caroline but, Alas! it was not to be. Caroline took hot chocolate with Peggy beforehand and then suffered the most terrible gastric distress. It was Peggy that had to be Jimmy's stand-in date that night. As luck would have it, Peggy had only had her hair coiffured that morning and had the day before put her hoarded clothing coupons towards a stunning evening gown. Everyone applauded as she swept into the ballroom on the arm of Jimmy. Jimmy had eyes only for his partner. "Can you feel the love tonight?" Kenneth asked Edward. Edward laughed and the two burst into song: "And if he falls in love tonight It can be assumed His carefree days with us are history In short, our pal is doomed!"[2] * * * * In time Peggy would grow to love Jimmy, in an abstractly fond way. She had always been influenced by elder men, her father, the Rev Skinner, the late Father Conrad Noel. Jimmy was her own age but he seemed older, almost fogeyish. Had his RAF service aged him? Or the loss of his brother in the war? The loss of Michael struck doubly hard. Jimmy had ambitions, lofty ambitions. After gaining Peggy's promise not to laugh, he told her of his plans for the Number 10. Peggy nearly broke her promise. But, explained Jimmy, these promises had been dashed. Jimmy's father, William, had consulted with his family before accepting an offer of a peerage. Michael, his heir, had offered no objection. Jimmy had a clear tilt at a Commons seat in the future. But now, as the heir presumptive of the Viscount Stansgate, that put the whole enterprise under a cloud. His father's eventual death was a Sword of Damocles hanging over his head. Peggy explained that the Cause was more important than individual ambition. And while William still lived there was no reason Jimmy couldn't pursue a Commons career. Jimmy conceded this was true but doubt and worry still gnawed at his heart. The relationship led to a reconciliation, of sorts, with Peggy's father. Albert Roberts saw the Wedgwood Benns as a good noble family, albeit arrivistes. More importantly, they were reputedly good Methodists, which was a sight better than that Romish crowd Margaret had been moving with in Thaxted. The choice of the Rev Charles Skinner as the celebrant at their marriage was just one extra delight for Albert and Beatrice. Edward and Kenneth came to the wedding. Caroline was invited but she had already returned to America. Later she would enter the Catholic church and marry into a prominent Boston family. [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] "Not to be a republican at twenty is proof of want of heart; to be one at thirty is proof of want of head." - Francois Guisot (1787-1874) Remember that 'Republican' had a different meaning 150 years ago so please, no political flames. [2] This became one of the great drinking songs of Oxford University before *Tim Rice and *Andrew Lloyd-Webber immortalized it in the musical "The Lyin' King" the fairytale story of London Lord Mayor *Jeffrey Archer. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 7 Date: Fri, 27 Jul 2001 16:50:49 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 7 [Author's note: In the preceding parts, for 'Albert' read 'Alfred' throughout.] Monday 5 February 1963 Dear Bob, Hugh's untimely death has left us all pretty flattened, as you can imagine. While he and I could not see eye to eye on Clause Four, he worked tirelessly to prepare the party for the next election. Peggy's reaction was the opposite. She was actually a fan of Hugh's plan to dump Clause Four, "The people responsible for Clause Four saw it as a way of stifling not promoting socialism." This stunned me when I first heard her say this. I quoted the clause back to her, "To secure for the producers by hand or by brain the full fruits of their industry, and the most equitable distribution thereof that may be possible, upon the basis of the common ownership of the means of production, distribution and exchange, and the best obtainable system of popular administration and control of each industry and service." It was a cornerstone of our party's commitment to socialism, I explained. "Stuff and nonsense!" she said in that forthright manner she has when she is Right. (And when I say 'Right' I don't mean right-wing.) "At the time Henderson and his flunkey were drafting the Labour Party constitution they were frit. Frit of Soviet Russia! They were terrified by the rising level of class struggle as the war ended and Lenin's revolution sweeping across Europe as a result. They saw the only way to avert this prospect was to strengthen reformism, so that it could contain and dissipate revolutionary impulses among rank and file workers." "Be that as it may, my dear," I soothed, "but the Party was modernised as a result, and membership was opened to all supporters of socialism, not just members of the trade unions." "And this is what took us away from our working class roots. How can Labour ever be the party of the class struggle if it contains members of all classes? I thought a little bit of formality was called for. "Lady Stansgate," I began. My sally went straight over her head. Peggy has a delightful sense of humor, save when the subject is herself . "When we were first married you worked for the Crown Prosecution service. And then that inn[1] at the seedy end of Whitchapel Road." She just snorted, mentioning something about forcing her subscription on the TGWU even though they claimed they didn't have coverage. The atmosphere had got decidedly chilly and it was fortunate that the bell rang. It was Denis Healey, the first to arrive for the meeting to advance the Programme. Denis is a good egg, despite being a bit of a loner. He chucked in his membership of the Communist Party at the right time and served bravely in the army in Italy. He advocated European socialist revolution in 1945 and, unlike many of his contemporaries, has not since resiled from that position. I think Peggy has been a good influence on him and vice versa. Soon Tom Driberg and the others were there too. We haven't been able to get Michael Foot or Harold Wilson involved yet, but they respect the numbers we have in the PLP and are friendly towards us in the parliamentary tea room. We quickly agreed that we should all support Harold for the leadership. George Brown is just too frightful and while Peggy's quite fond of James Callaghan as she points out, "He simply isn't one of us." We were working out who we should advance for which frontbench position. We thought Denis, a former major, would make a good shadow Secretary of Defence. "But that means I'd be _up against_ John Profumo," Denis joshed. The menfolk laughed, Tom with a huge smile on his face. But Barbara Castle and Peggy hadn't got the joke. "I fail to see what's so funny, Tom." Barbara declared coldly. It fell to Muggins to explain what all the menfolk in London have been talking about for the last month. Of course, what a gent gets up to in his private life should have no bearing on his political career (although I didn't put it in quite those terms in front of the ladies you can be sure, Bob!) but when it gets to 'parties' and doxies who are mistresses of KGB agents then one has to draw the line. Peggy, who also went to Oxford, agreed. She gave one of her Stern Lectures to the assembled troops. "The Soviet Union is now a home of careerists and not revolutionaries. It is every bit as corrupt as the capitalist states it opposes. How typical of the Tories, who would sell the rope that will hang themselves, to betray the nation in this way. I am sure there would be none in the Labour party to be so foolish!" She said this with quite some vim and vigour. Tom examined his boots closely. He was probably feeling guilty about laughing so loudly about the excoriated Profumo a few minutes earlier. Driberg quickly cheered up and we were nattering away nineteen to the dozen over cocktails after the meeting. He told me how lucky I was to be married to Peggy, whom he knew from way back. I agreed, and thanked him for not spiriting her away before I had a chance to get to know her. He winked, and asked me if I had much free time. Not much, I confessed, then I remembered the letters I send to you, Bob. I told him how writing these missives gave me a chance to unwind and reflect. I asked Tom what he did in his spare time. After a pause he said he composed crosswords. Well I never, live and learn. Still, it must be a convenient hobby given his digestion. When I was still in the Commons whenever there was a division, he always seems to be sitting on the lavatory somewhere. Anyway, must pack. There's the leadership ballot in London on Wednesday. With three candidates it may just be the first ballot of two. I hope Harold can get the numbers first time around. Best to you and Alice. Yours aye, Jimmy * * * * Tuesday 26 November 1963 Dear Bob, What a month it's been. Mac the Knife stepping down; the Magic Circle, with much nose holding, putting forward Rab in the absence of any alternative, and the assassination of the President. I've sent condolences to Caroline, it must be a terrible time for her and her family. In happier times I've been quite proud of knowing the sister-in-law of the President of the United States - I was telling Bert[2] last year how much I enjoyed knowing someone really famous like Caroline. Not a thing a good socialist should really admit to, I know, but there you are. Harold has really put us to good use this year. As well as being the shadow for the PMG he's got me and Peggy writing speeches for him to promote his new image. Did you hear that 'white heat of technology' bit on the telly? That was us. I see the scientific revolution of the late 20th century being transistors and electronic computors. Peggy thinks it's going to be more synthetics and what she calls 'polymers'. But we both agree that the scientific revolution is the handmaiden of the socialist revolution. Peggy's doing well in the Commons too. She was really boring it up Mac before he stepped down. And once, when Rab seemed less than effusive in his support for his leader Peggy pounced. Forced him to give a completely crawly statement of fealty to Mac. How we jeered on our side of the house. Still, the Conservative associations seem to have lapped it up - they're far less muted about having Rab as PM than I would have thought six months ago. He's nobody's fool and he's not below stealing some of our policies for his manifesto. But after 13 years of Tory misrule I don't think he has a chance. Probably go down in history as the shortest serving PM since Viscount Goderich. If I don't get to write again before Christmas, compliments of the season to you, Alice and all your loved ones. Yours aye, Jimmy **** Thursday 29 April 1965 Dear Bob, Did you hear about Harold's speech last night? It was in all the papers this morning. (At least the one's we take - The Guardian, Tribune and Morning Star - although Peggy insists I tell everyone we only take that last on for their crossword.) The PM last week previously told the Commons, "Her Majesty's Government is now in receipt of a request from the Government of South Vietnam seeking military assistance." Hah! It was stretching everyone's credulity that any of the revolving door clique of generals had made such a request. If the request had been translated into the Queens English it was not from Vietnamese but by the expedient of adding a few 'u's and changing some 'z's to 's's. That request had come straight from the US embassy in Saigon, that nest of spies. Rab went on, "We have decided - and this has been after close consultation with the Government of the United States - to provide an infantry brigade, including a battalion of soldiers highly skilled in counter terror techniques." He then went on to read a letter of appreciation from President Johnson expressing delight "at the decision of your Government to provide an infantry brigade for service in South Vietnam at the request of the Government of South Vietnam". The whole thing was a farce. You can be sure Rab's only got us involved in this war, not just on the wrong side but one which is none of business anyway, to try and win a bit of popularity. After all, the Tories only just scraped home last year and the opinion poles show them behind. There's several new ministers, Powell and Maudling, that still haven't found their feet. But I digress. When parliament resumed yesterday, we were ready. It was probably Harold's best, and certainly his bravest, speech ever. Both Peggy and I contributed. Peggy got so excited that when Harold got up to speak she yelled out "Harold! Speak for Britain!" The Speaker cautioned her. Harold said, "It is not our desire, when servicemen are about to be sent to distant battlefields, and when war - cruel, costly and interminable - stares us in the face, that the nation should be divided. But it is the Government which has brought this tragic situation about, and we will not shirk our responsibilities in stating the views we think serve Britain best. Therefore, I say, we oppose this decision firmly and completely. We do not think it is a wise decision. We do not think it is a timely decision. We do not think it is a right decision. We do not think it will help the fight against communism." Peggy and I anguished over including the word 'communism'. But 'social fascism' means so many different things to so many people and Harold refused to say "the Kremlin clique that is denying the Soviet people the fruits of Lenin and Trotsky's victory". Anyhow, Harold went on to say, "We do not believe it will promote the welfare of the people of Vietnam. On the contrary, we believe it will prolong and deepen the suffering of that unhappy people. "And I address this message to my colleagues here in Parliament and that vast band of Labour men and women outside: the course we have agreed to take today is fraught with difficulty. I cannot promise you that easy popularity can be bought in times like these. Nor are we looking for it. When the drums beat and the trumpets sound, the voice of reason and right can be heard in the land only with difficulty. But if we are to have the courage of our convictions, then we must do our best to make that voice heard. "I offer you the probability that you will be traduced, that your motives will be misrepresented, that your patriotism will be impugned, that your courage will be called into question. But I also offer you the sure and certain knowledge that we will be vindicated, that generations to come will record with gratitude that when a reckless Government willfully endangered the security of this nation, the voice of the Labour Party was heard, strong and clear."[3] Peggy was disappointed that Harold left out her phrase about the working class of Britain wishing the freedom loving people of Vietnam every success in their struggle against capitalist imperialism. I explained that Harold is very concerned about George Brown jumping ship over Vietnam and even taking some others with him. I told her that she could probably pass on these wishes on Harold's behalf in person when she has her trip to Hanoi in the Autumn. As you know, Bob, she's made her plans months ago and Peggy's not the kind of person to make something like this disrupt her itinerary. This war thingy should add a bit of excitement to the May Day march in London tomorrow. If you're up for the march Bob, meet me in the Stranger's Bar afterwards. Yours aye, Jimmy [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] In this context a law partnership rather than a saloon. Although at the seedy end of Whitchapel Road it would take a skilled advocate to argue the difference. [2] Bertram, 3rd Earl Russell [3] In one of those eerie parallels that exist between our timeline and alternative timelines, Harold Wilson's speech bears a close resemblance to that given historically by one Arthur Calwell, an Australian politician. Now while Wilson was no Calwell, he was known for sometimes doing the right thing. As always, I am open to correction. - Syd -- "Watching the Aussies is like a porn movie: you always know what's going to happen in the end." - Mick Jagger finds the Ashes Test series strangely fascinating Subject: Thaxted - Part 8 Date: Tue, 07 Aug 2001 00:51:31 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 8 [WARNING: The following episode of 'Thaxted' contains references to President Lyndon Baines Johnson. Which some readers may find offensive.] "And I know that I'm not alone in what I think or feel But I know there ain't nothin' I can do to make what I think real And I know that I'm here because they said my country needed me But I don't see why some guy back at home Thinks me dying here will somehow keep him free" - 'Crazy Asian War' from the musical 'Pearls before Swine' (Friday October 1, 1965) The President was seated as his Secretary of Defense handed him the situation report. Lyndon Johnson quickly skipped through the Chief Executive summary and ran his fingers over the appendices. "As you know, Bob, I don't have much of an opinion of the fighting abilities of those Limeys. But this chart here on page 27 shows that they're killing the enemy at almost half the rate that we are - and they only have a brigade while we have four corps." Robert McNamara swallowed. "Yes, Mr President. As you correctly point out it is a chart of rate. These are per-battalion kill figures. The British bar is barely a third of the American bar. When you consider the greater proportion of soldiers the British put on the front line the ratio is more like one in four." "What are you saying, Bob?" the President said, peering up suspiciously. Even seated he was nearly as tall as the standing McNamara. "Mr President, what I am saying is that the British Expeditionary Force has contributed less than 2% of the body count of the past week." Johnson's lips moved soundlessly as he converted 'two per cent' into Texan. "That's diddly-squat!" he exploded. "Yes sir. What I propose we do is..." "The hell with any fancy pants Ivy League college approach!" The President stood up, wiped himself perfunctorily and pulled up his pants. "I'm going to Saigon to knock some sense into that Limey General." Johnson strode from the small room amidst a cloud of Secret Service agents, leaving McNamara to flush. * * * * "Hear those jungle drums they are beating out tonight They're telling all the world Come and dance The viet conga" - 'Viet Conga' from the musical 'Pearls before Swine' (Wednesday 13 October, 1965) It was another sweltering day in Hanoi. There had been no bombing for ten days now, Peggy's hosts had told her, so things were pretty much normal. She almost laughed. How can things be normal when there is a war on? Weren't things different before the war began this year? Comrade Viscountess, she was told, you may have been fighting since May, we have been fighting since 1945. She still was taken by the matter-of-factness by which this information was conveyed. She thought of the class struggle in Britain and how long it might last once the revolutionary stage was reached. She nearly reverted to the habit of her childhood and prayed - prayed that the necessary violence in Britain would not be so prolonged. Then she mentally scolded herself - what had to be done, had to be done. There was no use crying over milk that was as yet unspilt. She had already met the Politburo. According to her itinerary, she was to visit the Ministry of Fishing at Haiphong today. This would tie in nicely with her position, as Shadow Secretary of State for the White Fish Authority. However, the Ministry had relocated to Mong Cai due to the bombing. A visit to some American prisoners of war, here in Hanoi, had been scheduled instead. It was a frightful nuisance. Peggy couldn't see how visiting a group of foreign POWs could add to her reputation as a rising opposition frontbencher. They approached the yellow sandstone building. Comrade Nguyen, her escort, led her in. Peggy was intrigued to hear that the prisoners were largely American airmen. She had fond memories of serving cakes and coffee to United States Army Air Force crews at the Thaxted NAAFI during 1943 and early 1944 before she had gone to Oxford. How she admired those hard-working young men, servicing the planes being used to bomb the fascists, doing their bit to liberate Nazi occupied Europe Since then the Americans had followed the British example, and set up an independent branch of their armed services, the United States Air Force. Presumably modeled on the RAF but without, one hoped, all those portraits of Queen Elizabeth II in the officers' messes. It was such a wicked waste, all that bravery being used now to suppress the People's Revolution. Even if the Vietnamese Politburo had an unsavory aroma of Stalinism, it was clearly doing a better job of uniting the nation than the junta in the South. And how could the Vietnamese people reform their politburo when they were fighting a war, anyway? Opposition would be seen as unpatriotic. Like trying to get rid of that Tory Churchill before Hitler had been defeated. The prisoners were lined up like an inspection parade. One of the prisoner, perhaps incarcerated longer than his fellows, pointed to the 40-year-old Viscountess. "Hey, lookit that tomato! Where's Bob Hope?" The man on his left gently elbowed him, "This ain't no USO tour. She's the Limey Commie. Pro'ly come to gloat." But gloating was the last thing on Peggy's mind. She spoke to each man, asked his home state, and told them which union there was most ideologically sound. "Captain Weiss. Arizona you say? I think the Mine, Mill and Smelter Workers Union does a fine job at Anaconda Copper, don't you? And Lieutenant..." she pronounced the rank carefully in the American style[1], "Schmidt. Which part of Minnesota? Oh, yes, the United Food and Commercial Workers, good people, very militant." Comrade Nguyen and the prison governor were a little alarmed how this visit was developing. Comrade Nguyen intimated that they might be late for the reception at the Bulgarian embassy. "I'm in no hurry for oily vodka and tonics," she declared before turning back to a sandy-haired airman, "Lieutenant Billy-Bob Jones. There isn't a branch of the United Mine Workers in Mobile? You _must_ start one up when you get home. They do such good work!" The men started slipping Peggy pieces of cigarette paper. How that reminded he of the Thaxted NAAFI! Airmen there were always trying to ply her with cigarettes in gratitude for apple slice and percolated coffee. But it was silly! These prisoners in Hanoi would have so little if they were subject to wartime rationing like everyone else here. Whereas she had access to all the duty-free one could want. She didn't even bother looking at the cigarette papers. When she was leaving she handed them to the governor saying, "I can't possibly keep these. See that they go back to the men." The governor gave her that look of incomprehension that suggested that his written English was better than his ability to penetrate a Lincolnshire/ Essex accent. But there was no time to explain. Comrade Nguyen was practically dragging her out. So she left without a backward glance. A backward glance that might have shown her the thunderstruck expressions on the prisoners' faces. * * * * "Blood on my hand Hate in my heart and there's Blood on my hands Stains on my heart and there's No way I'll ever be clean and there's No way it won't wash away I'll be stained till the day that I die" - 'Crazy Asian War' from the musical 'Pearls before Swine' (Thursday 14 October, 1965) The President and the Secretary of Defense had been invited to the weekly meeting of the commanders of the Free World Allies forces, held at the headquarters complex of the Military Assistance Command, Vietnam. The had been spirited from the embassy by rapid motorcade to MACV. The journey had been air conditioned behind tinted glass; only for a few seconds entering and leaving the vehicle had the pair seen the direct light of the low, red, morning sun and felt the sticky humidity of the Saigon morning. There were six generals awaiting them in the meeting room, each in a different uniform. It was the range of uniforms that attested to the success of the Battle of the Flags[2]. William Westmoreland was the third American present in the room. The others were General Kim commander of the 'White Horse' division from the Republic of Korea, General Renato De Villa from the Philippines, Major General Dej Potaramik the Royal Thai 'Black Panther' division[3] and Brigadier Ron Hughes commanding the Australian taskforce. The sixth was General Hackett, who had recently replaced the short-serving General Cain following his unfortunate accident.[4] The Chief of Staff of the Army of the Republic of Vietnam was not present, the previous officeholder[5] had gone on to better things in the recent coup and had not yet made a new appointment. The commander of the New Zealand 'V' Force was uninvited, it being felt he was a little to junior for such august company. All the generals rose to attention as Johnson and McNamara entered the room, save for Brigadier Hughes whose vision may have been obscured by his broad brimmed slouch hat. The Australian nevertheless appeared to salute although he may have been brushing away flies. The civilians listened intently as the generals discussed strategy. Westmoreland, as the most senior officer, set the ball rolling. "Our aim for this week is to bomb here, here and here," he said, indicating targets to a large map of Indochina with a pointer. General Hackett begged to differ. "If guerillas swim like fishes in the sea of public acceptance, then the simplest way of defeating them is to get the sea to reject the fish. Thus you make the average peasant your friend and you make the average peasant regard the guerilla as their enemy and you make sure the average peasant is more confident in your ability to protect them than they are in the guerilla's ability to impose fear." Westmoreland smiled good humoredly, "But John, you should know that we are already doing this. We have our Civic Action programs. We tried your Malayan tactics with our strategic hamlets but it just didn't seem work." Brigadier Hughes was finally standing. "Of course it didn't work, sir. Those useless drongos running the strategic hamlets built them miles from the peasants' villages. Being taken from your home, your fields, your livelihood - it was an admission to the Vietnamese that you couldn't look after them." Westmoreland was still indulgent. "Some of those villages were in bandit country. The places were swarming with VC. If we'd tried to protect the peasants there we'd have been putting our boys in danger." "With all due respect sir," the Brigadier spluttered, "Christ all-bloody-mighty! It's the job of soldiers to go into harm's way. Someone shows you a fist, you show 'em a knife. They show you a knife, you show 'em a pistol. They show you a pistol, you show 'em a fifty-cal pigshooter. It's the Australian way!" The President could contain himself no longer, "You Limeys," he began waving at Hackett and Hughes. 'Limeys' covered a wide range of people in the Johnsonverse. Limeys practically began at Niagara Falls. "You talk pretty big at how you like to fight but how come you have such a lousy body count?" General Hackett was a well-brought-up gentleman and did not laugh. Hughes as an Australian had no such compunctions.[6] While Hughes was still giggling, Hackett explained, "Mr President, in the British army we are trained to kill the enemy. Not water buffalo, not women and children unless armed, not people who look like they could be the enemy under certain light conditions; but the enemy. This requires some observation and some care. It also entails no little risk to my men. But it works. We kill the guerillas that we've told the peasants are their enemies. We don't confuse our message by killing the peasants and then telling them we are their friends. We kill more slowly than your troops but we kill more surely. More importantly we stay on-mission. And our mission is not to produce bodies, it is to strengthen the people and government of South Vietnam to resist subversion." He did not add that killing opponents and supporters of the government willy-nilly and leaving matters to the Deity to sort out actually weakened the government. Typical British understatement. But nevertheless the President was left subdued. General Kim glowered quietly. There had been a frank discussion between Hackett and Kim the previous week about the appropriate level of reprisals required when a sniper was operating near a Vietnamese village In the face of the united front of the Commonwealth commanders, Westmoreland gave ground. "Perhaps there is something we can learn from your Malayan tactics. I'll get my staff to prepare a report and it can be an agenda item for next weeks meeting. Now: defoliant. We're going to spray," he pointed at the map once more, "here, here and here." * * * * "See the pretty butterflies as they try to catch the wind See the city flower people and hear the song they sing High up in the stratosphere in a magical balloon There's a lady floating on a stairway to the moon "Everybody's getting high On the lady's magic carpet ride Turning on to peace and love Like a psychedelic love child" - 'Psychedelic Love Child' from the musical 'Pearls before Swine' (Saturday 16 October, 1965) Lyndon Johnson stood beside Robert McNamara as they reviewed the Presidential visit to South Vietnam. "As you know, Bob, I've been thinking long and hard about Vietnam. It's like what General Patton, sadly departed said." What the late General had said was pretty much what Robert had expected. Short of the profanity, if you wanted to get them by the hearts-and-minds, you had to get up close and personal. The President went on to explain that he saw the anti-guerilla operations almost as a sideshow. "It's Uncle Ho and the Northerners that are the real problem. If we bomb 'em, if we grab their balls hard enough, they'll say 'uncle' and we can talk turkey. Whatever Uncle Ho says, the VC'll have to follow along." Satisfied, Johnson shook three times, zipped up and returned to the main body of Airforce One leaving McNamara to flush yet again. By the time McNamara was sitting down on the well-upholstered seat next to the President, he had an idea. "Mr President," he said. Johnson turned his gaze from the window to the Defense Secretary. "Even if the VC are a sideshow," explained McNamara, "they're tying down almost as much of our people as the NVA main force. We know the Brits want to re-fight Malaya but that's so 1950s. This is the era of the electronic brain." McNamara's enthusiasm for information technology was comparable to that of Viscount Stansgate, currently on the other side of the world. "And does an electronic brain tell me what Uncle Ho is thinking?" asked Johnson in straight-talking Texan fashion. "Uh, no sir. But it can tell us who the VC are." "Say what?" McNamara now had Johnson's full attention. "At FoMoCo we used electronic computers to do the payroll, sir. We had tens of thousands of employees. Some union, with special rules and rates for overtime. Some staff, with various pension fund withholdings depending on seniority. It would have kept a regiment of clerks busy without the computer." "So a computer could tell me who's on Uncle Ho's payroll, Bob?" A crafty smile alighted between the President's cheeks. "In a manner of speaking, sir." "Hmm. Did the computer at Ford always get the right answer, Bob?" "Mostly sir. A computer's results are only as good as the information that gets fed in." "Well, we've got the people on the ground to get the right information fed in. We'll show those hoity-toity Brits and their 'fishes swimming in the sea of public acceptance'!" The President reached for a beagle to swing by the ears but there was none aboard. "Now all we need is a name for this thing," he growled. "How about, the Phoenix program, sir?" "I like your thinking, son, naming it after a city will be popular. But let's not give the Goldwater crowd any free kicks." "Philadelphia, sir?" "The City of Brotherly Love? We aren't going to give those Viet Cong a big sloppy kiss[7], we're going to hit them right in the hearts and minds. Let's call it the Dallas program." [1] As any First Sergeant can tell you, there's no 'F' in 'good Lieutenant'. [2] This Battle of the Flags was an effort to get as many nations as possible fighting on the side of the Free World Allies. The desired image was that of a multi-national intervention to forestall aggression, rather than a lone superpower bereft of support from traditional NATO allies. Not to be confused with the Battle of the Flags fought between Cambridge University students and the parishioners of the Church of St John the Baptist, Our Lady and St Lawrence, Thaxted. [3] Yes, there was a Black Panther division fighting in Vietnam. Would I lie to you? [4] In a more ironic timeline General Robert Henry Cain VC would have died after being introduced to the head of the Saigon police, General Nguyen Ngoc Loan as, "This is General Robert Cain. He's a VC," causing the initially surprised police chief to draw his revolver and shoot Cain in the head. But here it was just a traffic accident on Saigon's chaotic streets. [5] 'Officeholder' seems a like word that you would apply more to a committeeman in Cook County, Illinois. But there you are. [6] General Sir John Hackett _was_ born in Perth. But years in the British army have helped him overcome this stain. [7] Notwithstanding Lyndon Johnson's reputation for earthy language, Robert McNamara's autobiography _D'oh!_ insists that "big sloppy kiss" was the phrase used by the President. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 8A: Moving to Retcon 2 Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2001 18:37:54 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 8A: Moving to Retcon 2 (Monday 6 September, 1965) "Dashed bad show about Cain," Montgomery sympathized. "He was a good soldier, a good general and would have gone on to better things." "Indeed, Bernard." "But you didn't invite an old soldier to GHQ just to seek condolences. What's wrong?" "Nothing's wrong, Bernard. In a way, Bob's accident has given us an opportunity. I think young Farrar-Hockley would be ideal for this command." "Hmm, a bit young." "But superbly trained. And he really hasn't put a foot wrong throughout his career. Whereever he has made a mistake, he has learnt from it." Field Marshal Montgomery of Alamein had reservations. He had made a career out of never learning from his mistakes. He'd still won the War. But Gerald was better placed to know who were the good eggs among the young officers of today. "Well then, give young Tony his posting then." "Ah, that's the problem," conceded General Templer , "our new Secretary of War is a bit of an interventionist. Likes to have a say in things. And Vietnam is the hot political topic at the moment, as you know." "You need to do what we did in my day," lectured Montgomery, "we always had politicians sticking their nose in where it wasn't wanted. Why, if I'd let Churchill have his way, we'd have had D-Day in the Balkans and the Russians would've beaten us to Paris. "No, what you want to do is give your Minister three choices. Two of which on close inspection are exactly the same and one which is completely outrageous, like bombing New Mexico." "So," said Templer, "I could offer a choice of Farrar-Hockley or else Kitson as acting CO until Tony can be released and Frank can revert to ACOS G2." "Exactly," beamed Montgomery, "Now who's going to be New Mexico?" Templer had to think for a moment. "Major-General Walter Walker[1]. He's not obviously unsuitable - he's just completed a stint as Director of Operations in Borneo. But his time there was marred by his invasions of Indonesia. Powell is an intelligent and unemotional man, he'll obviously pick Tony." Montgomery nearly raised an eyebrow. Intelligent and unemotional? That's not what the chaps at the club said about Enoch. But Gerald had been working with the new Minister for weeks now and obviously new him best. General Templer saw the look of concern on the old Field Marshal's face. "Walter's absolutely besotted with his Gurkhas. That'll go down like a lead balloon with the Minister. Mountbatten wanted to make him a CMG but the Army Board sensibly turned that one down too. Powell's got a lot more sense than Louis to favor someone unsound." * * * * Enoch Powell skimmed through the report. He prided himself on his reading skills and his ability to quickly distill the gist of any paper. "You're right about this Frank Kitson chap," he told Templer. Obvious assistant chief-of-staff type. Quite brainy, I like that. He'll provide good support, looking after intelligence." General Templer sighed silently in relief. His one fear was that Powell would see Kitson as a fellow intellectual and take a shine to him, put him in the top spot. Good. The Minister could be relied upon to put the right man in the right place. "Now Farrar-Hockley and Walker. You've recommended them both?" "Yes. But..." It was too late. The Secretary of War had already fished a florin[2] from his pocket and sent it spinning, describing a lazy arc through the air. Powell expertly caught the silver coin in his palm and slapped it against his left wrist. Inspecting it, he announced, "Tails!" [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] Now sadly departed. There was an obituary in The Daily Telegraph at http://www.dailytelegraph.co.uk:80/dt?ac=005800540057605&rtmo=V1ZG5Z1x&atmo=rrrrrrrq&pg=/01/8/13/db01.html [2] 10p in newfangled money. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 9 Date: Tue, 14 Aug 2001 11:06:31 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 9 "They look beat-up and depraved in the nicest possible way." - _Why The Beatles Create All That Frenzy_ by Maureen Cleave, London Evening Standard, January 26th 1963. Saturday 27 November, 1965 Dear Bob, Peggy went of to one of those Ban-the-War marches this morning. Wasn't able to go myself, Harold's insisting the Shadow Cabinet stay well clear of that stuff. And, as you know Bob, it's very chilly this time of year. Still, the marches are very useful for recruiting to the Programme; we're getting lots of new members into the Party, in particular the militant wing of the Party. It's like the glory days of the CND[1], which Ban-the-War seems to have largely eclipsed. Of course a few die-hards, like Bruce[2], insist that CND is still the big issue. "Who cares about yet another 'little war', of which we've had so many since the last world war, when it's the next world war and all the hydrogen bombs that'll kill us all." Poor Bruce, he doesn't seem to realise that H-bombs are so, well, 1950s. If we haven't used them in the past eight years we've had them, how likely are we to ever use them? But by possessing them, by having test blasts on the Montebello Islands, we show the world that Britain is capable of generating the white heat of the technological revolution. No, what motivates the young people today is the fear that they, or their boyfriends, will be drafted to fight in a distant war that is not in their interests, in Britain's interests or indeed the interests of those for whom they are putatively fighting. All these millions of pounds being spent when there is so much to do at home. As I said, Bob, the recruitment is going well. We're careful not to sign up too many new people in constituencies where there are sitting members - don't want to frighten the horses, after all. But if the member is retiring, or it's a Conservative or Liberal held constituency, then it's open slather. If we're going to win the next election, we're going to have to take seats of the Tories, and we may as well win the seats with militants. After the march was over I had to go to Aldermaston to bail Peggy out. I don't know if you've heard the wireless reports but Peggy wasn't caught up in the police beatings. I expect it'll be on the telly and in the newspapers by the time you get this missive. It's disgraceful. Mac didn't care too much if the police put in the boot or truncheon at a demonstration and it's got worse under Rab. The insolence of office among those who've governed for too long! I offered to bail Bert out too but he was chanting "Gaol - No bail!" so I just paid for Peggy and Vanessa[3] and we went our way. Good old Bert, he's 93 years old but an inspiration to other peers like me. Peggy told me after the rally that there's dozens of young activists that she herself has persuaded to join the party. I reminded her that much of the real power lay with the trade unions - it was no good having hundreds of militants join if lazy union bosses could cast millions of votes through block voting. "We need to ensure that everyone who signs-up gets involved in their relevant union. A few activists in key places can swing hundreds of thousands of votes at a Party conference," I explained. Peggy looked troubled, "These are people who are joining the party because they are concerned about Britain's return to imperialism in South East Asia. They'll take some convincing that a career as a union official is the way to do it." This was true. I presented Peggy with a distasteful possibility, "We've come close to winning in 1959 and again in 1964. We've got to win in 1969 or whenever Rab calls the election. It is time. But something could go wrong. The Liberals could take votes away from both of us and the Tories could win with 40% of the vote." Peggy bit her lower lip and conceded it could happen. "But," I continued, "Labour will continue to be the party representing the working class, which is the majority of British people. If we cannot exercise our democratic power in the Commons, we can exercise it industrially." "Perhaps not a national strike," I said hastily, because I saw Peggy had that glint in her eyes, "but a series of strategic, rolling stoppages to establish peace in Vietnam and the rest of our manifesto regardless of who the vagaries of the electoral system puts into Westminster." Peggy gave me a big, sloppy kiss. "Now I remember why I married you," she said. I should mention the twins. Carol's doing well at Edinburgh, studying Chemistry to the delight of both Peggy and myself. Hilary is a bit of a disappointment, reading Greats at Oxford, still doesn't know what to do with his life. I've heard some disturbing reports about him dabbling with Liberalism but when he's home for the holidays it's all, "Mum! Dad! I don't want to talk about politics," and then he's up in his room listening to the Beatles. Beatles! If their getting those MBEs on Thursday wasn't a quid pro quo for their performance at Bah Bang[4] the other month! Why can't he listen to a decent band that's come out against the Butler government, like the Rolling Stones? They can be a bit loud but even an 'old fogy' like me can enjoy 'Sympathy for the PM'. I'd better be going and cook Peggy some supper. She'll be ravenous after the day's events. Give my best to Alice. Yours aye, Jimmy [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. [2] Monsignor Bruce Kent [3] Vanessa Redgrave. One of 1,314 arrested at an anti-Bomb rally on September 17th 1961 in our timeline. [4] Viscount Stansgate means Da Nang. The Beatles performed there in late September at a Bob Hope concert for US and BANZAI [5] service personnel. Their support of the British war effort cost them many of their younger, radicalized fans. The group tried to regain lost ground with their release in 1966 of their experimental 'Khaki' album but it was a critical and commercial failure. Inevitably, the group broke up in 1967, never realizing the promise of their early years. John Lennon died of a heroin overdose in 1969, shortly after attempting to return his MBE. More happily, Paul McCartney was able to reinvent himself and is now a popular game show host. [5] British, Australian and New Zealand Anti-Insurgency. The acronym was one of Defence Secretary Powell's choosing. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 10: The Band Date: Sat, 18 Aug 2001 18:45:52 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 10: The Band "Johnny Todd, he took a notion For to cross the ocean wide And he's left his own true love behind him Walking by the Liverpool tide." - 'Johnny Todd', English folk song, c.1890 A good discussion starter is to ask, "Which was the second best British band of the 1960s?" Someone from north of Watford might say "Gerry and the Pacemakers", whereas a Southerner might say "the Stones" or, if they are couth, "the Kinks". Yet there is unanimity as to the identity of the greatest band of the decade. There can be dispute about the Bonzos. For instance, which is your favorite song? Which is your favorite album? Which is your favorite member - creative genius Neil, saxophonist Rodney, bearded Bill, zany Roger or Ringo, that late admission to the line-up in 1968? Or front man John, with his shaven head and beanpole frame, 'dancing' to the music in what was almost a strutting, jerking, goose-stepping walk? The song argument is an evergreen with any band, no less the Bonzos. Do you like their new stuff or their old stuff better? But just about everyone loves their first big hit. Ask anyone of a certain age in the UK and they can tell you where they were and what they were doing in the spring of 1966 when they first heard 'Johnny Todd'. * * * * (Saturday 4 December, 1965) John felt the smoothness of his scalp where he'd shaved it. It still didn't feel right. The shaving of his head had been symbolic - everyone else in the music business seemed to have long hair, well, not he! Better to look like a Buddhist monk, like those which were again immolating themselves in South Vietnam. John hadn't been born to be a radical. He used to despise and mock all forms of extremism - both the backward looking British Empire nostalgics and the trade unionists that would run the new technocratic society on behalf of the workers. Comedy had been a natural career for him, pricking the pretensions of those with no notion that they might be mistaken. But then came the Vietnam war. John could see no comedy there. There was nothing funny about a burning monk, or a napalmed little girl, or a poisoned rice crop, or a lunar landscape that was once a farming district, or concentration camps for relocated civilians or a village full of corpses, shot because of enemy activity in the area. Or nineteen year old conscripts, old before their time from what they'd seen and done, seeking relief in controlled substances and whores even younger than they. David had been the last straw. Insisting they not be critical of General Walter 'Get a Haircut' Walker on TW3. "It wouldn't be patriotic," said Frost. "Do you still have any idea what satire is about?" John raged. "I've a good idea about what job security is sweetie," David replied, "There's two things: we keep the network happy, we keep our audience. Nothing else matters. Anything that threatens these two things we avoid. Management supports the War. Our audience supports the War. The kids oppose the war but they don't watch telly. Ergo, we satirize the kids." John gave his notice that day. He still had the radio program "I'm Sorry, I'll Read That Again" a typically British mix of sketch, catchphrase and dada. He was both a performer and a writer. But his writing began to suffer. He no longer had a stomach for elaborate puns or fruity accents. He shared his concerns with his friend and fellow performer over a drink after one show. "I'll introduce you to Neil," said Bill, who was a musician as well as a comic. And so here they were. John, Bill, Neil, Rodney and Roger. They had been playing with various riffs, trying to hit on one that would be the next Big Thing. "You've got to come up with something that'll get the whole country behind you," insisted John. "Yes," replied Neil, as if John was stating the bleedin' obvious. "Then stop playing around with these R&B riffs." The rest of the band took a collective breath. What was this heresy? "Look, it's obvious. Who are the most popular band in Britain today?" "The Stones," said Rodney. "Nah, the Kinks I fink," said Roger. "Neither," said John, "It's The Seekers." "What!" exclaimed Bill. "It's true," John explained, "look at the record sales. They've even got their own show on BBC1. Easy listening folk music, that's where the audience is." "But we can't be like The Seekers," protested Neil. "They're so wet. And they even toured Vietnam before the Beatles..." he paused to give everyone else a chance to spit "...went there." "Folk doesn't need to mean 'sell out'," said John, "In America there's a history of folk protest running from the Weavers..." blank looks "...up to Bob Dylan." There were now comprehending nods. "In fact, I've got a Dylan song here. Didn't chart in America, wasn't released here. When Dylan did it it was just a folk song about a Liverpool sailor. I've changed the words so he's now a Merseyside Royal Marine. Goes off to Vietnam. Gets shot. When he returns his girl's with someone else." "Love the Vietnam twist, John," said Neil kindly, "but if the song went nowhere with Dylan behind it, it's not likely to have everyone in Britain humming along." "Ah, but that's where you're wrong!" said John triumphantly. "This is a song that everyone in Britain can already hum." He strode to the piano and began to accompany himself as he sang: "Johnny Todd, he took a notion For to cross the ocean wide And he's left his own true love behind him Walking by the Liverpool tide." "Oh," said Neil. "Oh," said Bill, Rodney and Roger. * * * * 'Johnny Todd' rose to be Number One in the charts in the second week of March 1966 and stayed there. Everyone was singing it, if only out of relief to have the words at last. Kilted Scots Guardsman marched into chest-high elephant grass with their regimental pipers playing the tune. The Ministry of Defence and the Army tried to ban the playing of 'Johnny Todd' just as they had banned earlier anti-war tunes. But they couldn't ban a tune that had already been popular and innocuous, before the Bonzos had released their version. Any officer who complained was likely to be greeted with, "Go back to Newtown and Seaport in your Zephyr, Barlow!" It was rather like trying to stop a pervert whistling the tune to a song with dirty lyrics. * * * * (Sunday, May 1, 1966) Father Jack Putterill was 74 yet unwearied with age. He was marching along with Vanessa Redgrave on his right elbow and Lady Stansgate MP on his left. On Peggy's other arm was Viscount Stansgate himself, ignoring Wilson's instructions that the shadow cabinet were not to march. Behind them were half a million (police estimates: 150,000) marchers. And they were singing: "All young men who go a-sailing For to fight the foreigner Do not leave your own true love, like Johnny Stay behind and marry her." [If you'll just let me continue.] - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 11: Sterling Date: 2 Sep 2001 00:35:04 -0700 From: syd_webb@hotmail.com (Sydney Webb) Organization: http://groups.google.com/ Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 11: Sterling "Either that man goes or I go!" With that exclamation, George Brown turned around, hiccoughed and strode from the Leader of the Opposition's office, slamming the door behind him. Harold Wilson turned and looked at the other two remaining in the room, Clement Lord Attlee and the Chief Whip, Bob Mellish[1]. "George is right, Harold," said Lord Attlee mildly, "you can't allow such base treachery to the Leader go unpunished." Wilson wondered if Attlee might be making a subtle reference to the events of 1951. Harold regretted, not for the first time, Herbert Morrison's passing the previous year. Herbert had been a wellspring of advice and ideas. (Harold also regretted that Herbert's daughter had not gone into politics, either. Such a loss to the Party!) Still feeling the need for a mentor cum elder statesman, Harold had mended fences with Clem. "What's more," growled the Chief Whip, "this Militant Programme faction of his continues to grow. It needs to be nipped in the bud." "All right," decided Wilson, "I'll sack Jimmy from the shadow cabinet. We can promote Stonehouse to be shadow Postmaster." "Sounds like a reshuffle," said Lord Attlee, "Might as well get rid of Peggy, too." "But she hasn't done anything wrong." Wilson lit his pipe. Puffing furiously he said, "I'd ordered the shadow cabinet not too march. With all that violence at the demonstrations we've been trying to avoid controversy. But the Party still opposes the war and I've put no such restrictions on other parliamentarians. We can't punish someone for a crime they haven't committed." Mellish snorted. "You're starting to sound like a Liberal, Harold me lad. Here in Labour we get our retaliation in early, like. You look at the Militants. It's not Jimmy Stansgate running 'em nor Denis Healy nor Jenny Lee nor any of the long term members of the PLP. It's Peggy Stansgate what's the brains behind 'em. They need a short, strong shock, sharpish like." Wilson pondered in a cloud of smoke. Presently he emerged, saying. "I can't sack her - that would look like petulance and only make her, and by extension her husband, martyrs. And while it might make George Brown happy there'd be Cassius[2] walking out taking the whole Left with him. But in a reshuffle I can move her legitimately. Not a demotion but somewhere where she'll be kept too busy for plotting." He puffed contentedly. "I wonder how Callaghan will like his new Parliamentary Private Secretary?" Lord Attlee looked like he was going to have a heart attack. "You're going to make Peggy Stansgate PPS to the shadow chancellor?" "Yes. She'll do fine. I like to think of myself as a good judge of character," proclaimed Wilson.[3] * * * * Peggy was an outstanding debater in the Commons and the manager of opposition business, Douglas Houghton, gave her every opportunity to speak. Or as Bob Mellish said, "Give 'er enough rope." Enoch Powell was speaking at length on the progress of the war. He had about him the air of a schoolmaster seeking to educate a particularly stupid class of boys, not expecting success, but feeling an obligation toward their parents who had spent so much on fees. It was his suggestion that the British Army was teaching the Vietnamese the virtue of fair play that had Peggy on her feet. "The honorable member for Wolverhampton South-West suggests this nation's army is on a crusade of education in South-East Asia. More, he is suggesting that these soldiers are latter-day Victorian missionaries, teaching the Vietnamese to play up, play up, and play the game. But this is not the case. We spend a hundred times and more on munitions that medicines. The wages bill of our soldiers dwarves the amount spent on so-called civic action. I draw the honorable member's attention to the village of Caot An Thai, the entire population of which was slaughtered or dispersed on the twenty-second of last month[4]. It would seem Britain is adopting the stance of a reaver when we should all take the missionary position!" Hansard records "The House dissolved into laughter" at this point but fails to capture the perplexed looks of Peggy and Enoch at the chaos around them. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, Edward Heath, leaned over and whispered in Powell's ear. Powell turned and stared at Heath. Heath nodded. The Secretary of State for War cleared his throat, "Does the Honorable Member for Bristol South-East intend to maintain the missionary position?" It was Tom Driberg's turn to whisper into Viscountess Stansgate's ear. "Yes," she declared, "The lady's not for turning." * * * * 1967 saw revolutionary waves spread over from Britain to the rest of Europe. Americans may have enjoyed 'The Summer of Love' but first in Europe there was the 'Spring of Discontent'. There were riots in Paris. Ludvik Svoboda's Action Program had run headlong into the Brezhnev Doctrine and Warsaw Pact forces were dispatched towards Prague. This was shortly followed by the Israeli invasions of her neighbors. The result was never in doubt. In six days a well-drilled, combined arms army had overcome ragtag forces who possessed more in the way of fanatacism and nationalism than military training. Prague fell. At the United Nations the Security Council debated what could be done about acts of aggression. Apologists claimed the 'aggression' was just a proportionate response to a litany of provocation. Firm action was vetoed by the Soviet Union and the United States, respectively. The more daring broadsheets drew comparisons between events in Central Europe and Western Asia. But certain individuals were drawing comparisons of a different kind... * * * * Saturday 1 June, 1967 Dear Bob, Don't know if you've been following the foreign news in the papers recently. These days I've far more time to keep up with what's going on in the world. Very disappointed by what's happened in Czechoslovakia, that "distant land about which we know little" in Chamberlain's words. Peggy was buzzing about in the kitchen yesterday morning, getting ready for some policy committee or something, while I helpfully read out the headlines from the morning papers. "Some English padre has had himself photographed on a Russian tank," I said, pouring over The Morning Star, "Name of Putterill." That got Peggy's attention quick smart. Apparently Putterill was one of her vicars back in Thaxted when she was growing up. Only in that part of the country I don't think they call them 'vicars'. She examined the photograph closely. "T-54. Polish Army, I fancy." How does she do that? Of course, you and I can tell an Messerschmidt 109 from a barrage balloon but then we're RAF trained. "It's a disgrace, Peggy," I said loudly, "this Jack Putterill chap comes marching with us to Trafalgar Square protesting at a superpower invading a small country, putatively at the request of a puppet regime, then he goes to Prague to praise another superpower for doing exactly the same thing!" "What did you expect, dear?" she replied, "Once a Tankie, always a Tankie. Come the revolution we can't rely on his kind." "But dash it all Peggy, people can change! I mean look at me. A viscount and the son of a viscount. Yet I'm as working class as anyone." Peggy patted my hand reassuringly. "You're a Labour viscount and the son of a Labour viscount. And that's what matters to me." "Yes. But Father was a Liberal before he joined the Party. That doesn't make my heritage hopelessly bourgeoisie does it?" Peggy gave me a peck on the cheek, "Must run now, Jimmy. Don't forget we have dinner at Janet Bevan's tonight." I was momentarily lost by the reference to Janet Bevan. Then I realised she meant Jenny Lee[5], one of the grande dames of the Labour Party. If one could call someone as resolutely working class as Jenny a 'grande dame'. It irks me that Peggy always displays some asperity to Jenny, who is a genuine proletarian heroine. Does Peggy resent the fact that Jenny kept her own surname despite marriage to one of the stellar lights of the Party? Or is it just that she find she can't intimidate Jenny in the same way she can so many men that surround her? I must have a quiet word to Peggy about this. When the time is right. Dinner wasn't nearly as frightful as I feared. Peggy was polite and Jenny is a surprisingly well-read raconteur. I'd expected her flat would be something of a shrine to Nye but there was just a single photograph of Jenny with him. Lots of photos from the '20s and '30s though, particularly of one chap. Peggy told me afterwards it was Frank Wise, one of our MPs from the early days. I was going to ask Jenny about him but Peggy silenced me. The General Election is two years of less away. Peggy and I are convinced that after 16 years of Tory misrule we're a shoo-in. Jenny was less sanguine. "You see half a million marchers against the war and think all is going well. That's almost 50 million who aren't marching. There are some individuals who are very, very devoted to the Party. But democracy isn't about quality of votes but quantity. Better to have 15 million voters who see you as the lesser of two evils than 10 million voters who think the sun shines out of your manifesto." Peggy looked grim but determined, "Give me one million supporters and I can change the world!" Jenny looked closely at her, "Bonapartism, Peggy?" "Oh, no. I still believe in democratic centralism." This was good to hear. I've always opposed devolution too, because just when you've won office in Westminster; Scotland, Wales and the councils have gone Conservative and they'll oppose you at every turn. As we were driving home I mentioned that with my increased free time perhaps I could take an increased rôle in the Programme. "Yes, dear," said Peggy absently. "Perhaps in the organizational side?" I asked. Peggy's hands clenched on the steering wheel and she swerved alarmingly. Perhaps I should have insisted on driving. But she quickly calmed down. "No Jimmy, I think you should be our theoretician." And for the second time in the one day she patted my hand. Which was nice. But enough of me and my problems. How is Alice and her cyst? Once we're back in, you'll see NHS waiting lists halve. Yours aye, Jimmy * * * * (Thursday, 6 June 1967) Every Thursday morning there was a cabinet meeting and not even the festivities for the 23rd anniversary of the D-Day landings would forestall this meeting. Richard Butler, the Prime Minister, was in the chair. The major agenda item was Chancellor Heath's proposal for decimalized currency. The plan met with some discussion. The Minister for War began speaking on the importance of LSD, which had a few of the younger members sit up. When it became clear that the LSD in question were librae, solidi and denarii the rest of the cabinet assumed comfortable positions and let the erudite lecture wash over them. Health smiled indulgently. "Enoch is certainly right about the rich history of our present money. Yet Britain has to move with the times..." "Do we?" chimed the Foreign Secretary in a voice of concern. He had been spending Powell's speech reliving the triumph of the Munich agreement in his mind[6]. "I thought we were Conservatives." The Home Secretary, Reginald Maudling, offered support to Heath. "Being Conservative means preserving the best as we move forward. As Ted said, we are in an age of electronic computers now. The most sophisticated trading nations in the world now use decimal currency. And Australia and New Zealand have just gone that way, too. We can't have farthings when we've machines that can only understand the numbers one to ten." The Lord Chancellor interjected, "I thought they only understood zeros and ones." Lord Hailsham was that most dangerous of Tory politicians, an intellectual.[7] Heath smoothly resumed putting his case, "Both Quintin and Reggie are correct. The computers themselves work on zeros and ones but the 'programmes'..." Had air-quotes existed then the Chancellor of the Exchequer would surely have used them. "...that come with them understand tens and hundreds. We don't have farthings any more..." A few of the older Lords who had not handled money since the War looked startled. "...but any fraction other than one-tenth or one-hundredth is going to cause complications. Complications that could cost millions of... pounds." "Why did you pause when you said 'pounds'?", Selwyn Lloyd wanted to know. "Because I want to prevent inflation," Heath said by way of almost explanation. "Oh. Jolly good show." "No, wait a moment. What about inflation?" Peter Thorneycroft demanded. Heath was a grammar school boy and you just couldn't let him say something like that unchallenged. "Well, there are currently 240 pennies in the pound," Heath said redundantly. Even an Eton boy like Thorneycroft knew that. "When the price of something goes up, it can go up by a ha'penny but more typically goes up by a penny. A penny on a pint, a penny on a postage stamp and so on. "But if we were to decimalize the pound, with each pound equal to one hundred, let us say, 'new pence' then a price rise is almost two-and-a-half times greater under decimalization." Lord Hailsham put his brain into gear. "Yes but dash it all, couldn't we have new ha'pennies too? So that a price rise is scarcely more than an old penny?" "You could," Maudling conceded. He and Heath were working tag-team style. "But a half isn't a tenth or a hundredth. It would be bad for the computers, costly to make work and bad for Britain." "Reggie's right," agreed Heath. "What we need is a new unit of currency, equivalent to a ten-shilling note. Then one-hundredth of it will be pretty close to a penny. And each pound will readily convert into two of the new units." "What are you going to call this new thing? The new pound?" Powell asked. "No," said Maudling. That would be a backward step, having a 'new' thing with only half the value of the old. The opposition would have a field day. No, we thought we'd take a leaf from our allies in Vietnam and call it 'the dollar'. The 'dollar sterling' to distinguish it from other, lesser, dollars. Lord Hailsham looked thoughtful. "Even though our currency has been on a nose dive since the Great War it's always been worth more than an American dollar, which gives the pound an appearance of strength. By halving the notional value of the currency, isn't there a risk that one day the American dollar will be worth more than ours?" Butler intervened. "Ted and I have already thought of that. We are prepared to announce publicly that the dollar sterling will always be worth more than the US dollar." With the Prime Ministerial position made clear, debate spluttered on derisorily. There were a handful of ministers who were concerned with how the traditionalists in the constituency associations would take the disappearance of the pound. These ministers looked to Powell for leadership. But Enoch was strangely silent. In truth, Powell was aghast that such a potent symbol of Britishness might be going. But Powell was a strong believer in sound money too. If there had to be decimalization, it should be non-inflationary. But propping up the new currency, to keep it ahead of the American dollar! That could be a dangerous interference in the market. Sharpers, especially of the Levantine persuasion, could take advantage of this. Yet there would be no denying the psychological impact, superstitious as it might be, if a major foreign currency was more valuable than that of Britain. A quotation came unbidden into Powell's head, oddly enough neither Greek nor Latin. "At first they came for the Communists, but I said nothing, for I was not a Communist." "A good plan," thought Powell, "always go for the Communists first."[8] With some grumbling, the Heath-Maudling plan got up. "Next item, the Common Market," Butler announced. Lord Home spoke, "Following the assassination of General Charles de Gaulle the new government of President Georges Pompidou has dropped any objections to Britain joining the Common Market. Should we seek entrance?" Butler smiled. Here was something non-controversial. "All those in favor?" he asked, anticipating the forest of hands. * * * * A casual observer of the music scene might think that the Bonzos' quirky songs, 'Monster Mash' and 'Urban Spaceman' might have been written by former comedians Bill Oddie and John Cleese. Not so, Monster Mash was a Wilson Pickett song and Urban Spaceman came from the pen of Neil Innes. Oddie and Cleese came up with a far more serious song, a song that became the anthem for an entire generation of British youth. This wasn't just a song that supported the Militant Programme's position on Vietnam, it was a song that endorsed the Programme's entire agenda. If 1966 was the year of 'Johnny Todd', the hit of 1967 was 'New Jerusalem Man'. [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] In out timeline Bob Mellish did not become Chief Whip until 1969. With Labour having fewer numbers in the Commons in this timeline advancement is faster. [2] Michael Foot. Along with Peter Howard and Frank Owen, Foot wrote 'The Guilty Men', a critique of the Chamberlain/Halifax policy at Munich, under the pseudonym of 'Cassius'. [3] Wilson certainly could see good in people where others failed. His retirement honours list being a case in point. [4] A subsequent generation of historical geographers has been unable to establish the existence of 'Caot An Thai'. Yet the Hansard record was never corrected so we must assume the village does, or did, exist. [5] In OTL Jenny Lee became Minister for the Arts in 1964, in Wilson's first ministry. Her lasting achievement was the creation of the Open University. [6] Lord Home, as a former parliamentary private secretary to Neville Chamberlain, is one of Cassius' Guilty Men. [7] Not as dangerous as Enoch Powell, obviously. [8] Not a plan always practiced by Powell, however. He joined the British Army as a private at the age of 25 to fight the Nazis. By war's end, six years later, he was Britain's youngest Brigadier. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 12: Can't Hardly Wait Date: Fri, 07 Sep 2001 00:48:40 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 12: Can't Hardly Wait "In come the dollars, in come the cents, To replace the pounds and the shillings and the pence. Be prepared folks, I can hardly wait, For the thirty-first of January, nineteen-sixty-eight! - Official HM Government jingle. (Thursday, 20 June 1967) It was the last sitting day of Parliament before the summer recess. Some members had holiday commitments and had taken their leave earlier. Two such members were Secretary of War Enoch Powell and the shadow Chancellor of the Exchequer James 'Sunny Jim' Callaghan who had arranged to 'pair' each other. It had always been the intention of Her Majesty's Government to release the news of the new currency during the 'silly season'. The planned date had been 16 July, when the country would be abuzz with the last day of the Edgbaston Test. Unfortunately there had been a leak from within Treasury. At least it was assumed to be Treasury. It would be highly unprofessional indeed if the leak had come from the advertising agency entrusted by Chancellor Heath to sell the dollar sterling to the UK public. "I have in my hands a piece of paper," announced Lady Stansgate MP, the most senior of Labour's treasury team in the Commons that day, "that shows the government is secretly planning to turn this country upside down and halve the value of British currency. This reckless plan calls for no less than the abolition of the pound..." At this point Hansard records "Hon Members: [interruption]" as a huge wave of uproar and unbelief swept the Government backbenches. The whips and the executive of the 1922 backbench committee knew of the cabinet's plan but the rest of the parliamentary rank and file were in the dark. Junior ministers joined whips in hastily whispering the salient facts to their party colleagues. Labour MPs had been handed gestetnered copies Peggy's piece of paper as they had entered the chamber. Home Secretary Reginald Maudling leaned over the front bench and muttered to Chancellor or the Exchequer Edward Heath, "Ted, is the Red Lady accusing *us* of being revolutionaries?" Health stood up and made the best official statement he could in the circumstances. Yes, the government was going to decimalize the currency. Conservatives always supported sensible, prudent practical change that was in the nation's interest. Sterling would remain strong. Future generations of schoolchildren would bless the name of Prime Minister Butler for making their sums easier. The conversion would be as simple as possible, even little old grannies would grasp the change easily. Pounds would remain legal tender from the introduction of decimal currency until the end of 1968. It was then Prime Minister Butler's turn. "Mr Speaker. My Chancellor and I promise this house and we promise the British people to keep the value in sterling. So long as I am Prime Minister the dollar sterling will remain the world's leading currency. When introduced it will be, and it shall remain, more valuable than other currencies in general and more valuable than the US dollar in particular. To this end I pledge my government. You can bank on the dollar sterling." * * * * It was a furious Chancellor that rounded on the Permanent Secretary of the Treasury. "William, this is the worst leak I have encountered as an MP. This is worse even than a budget leak. Don't talk to me about civil service permanence! Heads will roll and necks will be spat down!" Sir William Armstrong was taken aback. He'd never seen his political master this rampantly angry. Heath looked like he didn't know whether to bite the carpet or a pillow. "Yes, Chancellor. Most regrettable. I shall institute a leak enquiry. You can rest assured that any culprits found will not go unpunished." "Any culprits? There must be culprits! I want them found and charged under the Official Secrets Act!" The chancellor took a deep breath and his face became a little less florid. "You may go now. Get onto it quickly." "Yes, Chancellor." Once Sir William left the ministerial office he sighed. It wasn't anyone in the Treasury, it was that man Ogilvy, he was sure of that. Ogilvy or someone in his company. But how to prove it? And without proof, how to convince the Chancellor that the Conservative's pet advertising agency was responsible? Should he call in the CID or MI5 to investigate? It couldn't hurt if there was nothing to hide. What was he thinking! There was always something to hide. You don't want to have someone go looking for a leaked minute and discover an official doing some pre-budget speculation in the City as a way of retirement preparation. Best to approach a former permanent secretary. Whose turn was it now? Norman. Yes, Norman was sound. * * * * (Monday 29 January 1968) General Walter Walker loved the smell first thing in the morning. There was such a delicate fragrance. Once the cooking fires were lit and the water buffalo dung was heated by the sun the magic passed. "It's quiet, Kitson. Too quiet." "Yes, sir." Brigadier Frank Kitson missed General Cain. With him it had been 'Frank' and 'Bob'. Now it was 'Kitson' and 'Sir'. You had to have discipline but Walker was a martinet. Jungle warfare was no place for spit and polish. Still, Walker took an appropriate interest in military intelligence. Unlike the American generals who would obsess until they had the exact number of NLF[1] operatives in a hamlet and then blow the crap out of a distant village with a similar name. "I think Johnny Cong is up to something". With Walker it was always 'Johnny Cong'. Kitson had given up trying to use the FWA[2] standard nomenclature of 'Charlie' in the General's presence. "You may be right, sir. Analysis of PAVN movements suggests concentrations of enemy forces in the north near Quang Tri, Hué and Da Nang, as well as in our zone of operations along the Mekong Delta at Chau Doc and Can Tho. There is even suggestions of some guerillas massing near Bien Hoa and Saigon itself." "Bien Hoa? Saigon? They're our strongholds, Kitson. Haven't we got those areas pacified? How can Johnny Cong operate there?" "We certainly have sympathizers there, sir, which is one source of our intelligence. Since the build-up the PAVN[3] have been pretty much on the run. They no longer contest our forces, relying mainly on booby traps and sabotage. This inactivity is costing them support as the South Vietnamese see the enemy's revolution faltering. It may be that they're gambling everything on one last throw of the dice - countrywide attacks to trigger a people's uprising." "There's not going to be a people's uprising is there Kitson? Not even with attacks all along the line?" The Brigadier nearly winced as the General referred to the theatre as a 'line'. The very nature of this low intensity conflict was that it was not linear, not one-dimensional. "No sir, but there will be chaos. If our conclusions are correct, the attacks will be timed for the start of the Lunar New Year, when much of the ARVN[4] would normally be stood down or at partial effectiveness..." "Our little Asian cousins are always partly effect, Kitson." Walker had a low opinion of the allied army on whose behalf Britain was fighting. "Yes, sir. Partial effectiveness by their own standards." "I see. Carry on man." "It may also be an attempt to influence the US elections." "I thought the Americans had their elections every November. Haven't they just had one?" "Yes, sir. But the presidential election is a drawn out thing. It starts in a month's time and won't finish until the first week in November[5]. A widespread Communist offensive, even if defeated, might panic civilians into thinking the war was spiraling out of control. In an election, that could put the cat among the pigeons." "Interesting, Kitson. My first instinct is to take the initiative and attack them before they attack us. But we only have our Brigade plus the Commonwealth battalion. We need to concentrate our forces, Saigon and Bien Hoa. We can't just abandon Chau Doc and Can Tho; I'll kick General Nguyen's arse and get him to reinforce those places and cancel all leave. But Westmoreland has all the striking power. We'll have to convince him about the seriousness of the situation and get him to make the first move." Kitson demurred diplomatically. "We may have some difficulty convincing General Westmoreland, sir. We know he's been reporting to his superiors that the war has been almost won and he may be reluctant to move from that position. Remember the last war but one? When we tried to tell the Americans about the danger to Hawaii and the Philippines? And afterwards they asked, 'Why didn't you tell us more clearly?'" "I'll tell Westmoreland clearly," growled Walker. "Even if I have to put the message into Morse code and roger it up him." And with that arresting military metaphor the General strode towards his staff car. * * * * (Monday, 1 April 1968) Senior parliamentarians from both sides of politics had been invited to the American embassy for a white tie cocktail party. The recently appointed ambassador, Robert Kennedy, introduced the President to the various dignitaries. The President was on a thank-you visit to the Free World Allies and Britain was his first port of call. His absence from America during the primaries was not causing him any concern; last month he had handily won the New Hampshire primary despite his name not being on the ballot paper. A well organized write-in campaign had swamped a handful of also-ran malcontents. If truth be told, he had been worried that Bobby, a sometime opponent of the war, might have entered the lists. He hadn't, and LBJ had rewarded his rectitude. There was precedent, the ambassadorship had been something Bobby's daddy had held during WW2 and Johnson knew how much the Brits valued tradition. Looking around it seemed Caroline Kennedy already knew half the people in the room. And getting out of the Senate and getting some international experience would do Bobby some good if he wanted to run in 1972. God only knew Lyndon couldn't see Hubert ever becoming president. "Well, over my dead body," he muttered. "Mr President, Prime Minister Richard Butler," said the ambassador by way of introduction. "My dear Prime Minister, how delightful to see you." "And you to, Mr President." After some more pleasantries were explained, the President steered the conversation to the war. There was thanks for Britain's rôle, particularly in the recent events. "Prime Minister, this war hero of yours, General Walter 'Howling Mad' Walker. Is his nickname a result of your British sense of irony? Is he in fact a quiet, calm, collected man?" "Oh, no, Mr President. He's quite mad." "Good," thought the President. That checks with what Bill Westmoreland had said. Bill was a man of some personal courage but he seemed scared of Walker. Johnson had been afraid that Westmoreland was losing it. Still, Lyndon had been minded to ask the same question of the British Defense Secretary. How was this General Walker? Powell stared at him with cold, unblinking eyes. "Mr President, General Walker is just as sane as you or I." Meanwhile, Caroline Kennedy was introducing her husband to Jimmy and Peggy. "Margaret, Viscountess Stansgate is shadow Chief Secretary to the Treasury in Harold Wilson's shadow cabinet. Anthony, Viscount Stansgate is a prominent Labour backbencher. This is Robert Kennedy, former Attorney General, former Senator for New York and American Ambassador to the Court of St James." "She's trying to make a point," thought Jimmy, "I wonder what it is?" [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] National Liberation Front. Communists. [2] Free World Allies. Puppets. [3] People's Army of Vietnam. Communists. [4] Army of the Republic of Vietnam. Puppets. [5] Sometimes an election can go even longer than this without being resolved. But you already knew that. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 13: The Call Date: Sat, 08 Sep 2001 19:06:43 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 13: The Call (Saturday, 6 July 1968) Prime Minister Richard 'Rab' Butler was today supposed to be at Checkers, his official country residence. But yesterday was Friday the 12th. A day this morning's papers were already calling 'Black Friday'. Except for the Daily Mirror. It had called yesterday 'BLACK FRIDAY!' in screaming 72 point type. It would have been 96 point, Butler suspected, but the paper was only a tabloid and had used the largest type that would fit. Funny, he'd never thought of the Mirror as a financial paper before now. A run on sterling had begun earlier in the week. Some smarty-pants investors were trying to take 'arbitrage', if that was the right word, from the Government's commitment to protect the value of dollar UK. Other investors were acting as if they didn't believe the commitment and were trying to sell the DUK now in the hope of buying it back more cheaply. But there were precious few buyers and the Bank of England was having to take up the slack. The currency was becoming a dead DUK. By Friday the run had become a marathon. Trade figures had come out on Wednesday showing British consumers on a spending spree with the strong dollar and exporters, unable to match the prices of foreign competition, having to close their doors. Ted was back in Number 11, sending telegrams to the IMF, the World Bank, anyone who could help out. Butler had been trying to contact his good friend, the President of the United States, but without success. Apparently, and despite only a five hour difference in the time zones, it was still the Fourth of July in Washington and Johnson could not be contacted. What if it were an emergency? What am I thinking, thought Butler, this is an emergency. The PM's private secretary, stuck his head through the doorway of the study. "Lords Avon, Stockton[1], Home and Hailsham to see you, Prime Minister." "Show them in Wilfred. They'll make a nice distraction while we try to raise the President. Ask Betty to ring his ranch, she should have the number." The peers were shown to their seats by Wilfred as the Prime Minister came from behind his desk and sat in an armchair facing his guests. "Refreshments?" he asked. "No, thank you, Prime Minister" said Lord Stockton, as the eldest speaking for all of them. "Please, it's just us, call me Rab. Well, to what do I owe the pleasure?" asked Butler. "Rab," said Lord Avon, "you are one of the longest serving Prime Ministers this century." "Well done," murmured Lords Home and Hailsham. "Yes..." said the Prime Minister, not sure where this was leading. "Think of your recent predecessors as Conservative Prime Ministers," suggested Lord Avon, "Baldwin, Chamberlain, Churchill, myself, Maurice here. We all found a suitable juncture where it was time to place our burdens down." "Churchill was defeated at the polls," Butler noted. "In his first term," Lord Avon conceded. "A landslide," observed Lord Stockton, "of a kind the Party would never want to face again." "You're asking me to step down," said Butler. "No," said Lord Home. "Yes," chorused the other three in unison. "There really isn't any other way, Rab," said Lord Hailsham, looking earnest. "We have to devalue to start to get out of this mess and you've publicly pledged that the Government, that *your* Government, would not do this. We need a new government but of course one that is a Conservative government. Ergo, one that you do not head." "But we can still fight this without devaluation. Import controls, export credits..." Lord Stockton looked down from his chair at the Prime Minister's face, "My dear Rab. You must know that the advice from the Treasury and the City is at one on this. Any path that does not involve devaluation is fraught with danger and will be very costly. For the good of the country we must devalue." Butler's shoulders sagged. "If I must resign, I must. Well, I must take soundings..." Lord Avon shook his head. "We can't do it the way we did in Maurice's day. We must move swiftly to end the hemorrhaging. We, the five of us here, must come up with a name you can take to Her Majesty this weekend, before the City opens for business on Monday." Lord Stockton, relieved that the difficult part of the meeting was over, leaned back. "It must be someone financially sound." "Heath," blurted the outgoing Prime Minister, "You couldn't ask for a better Chancellor..." "No, Rab," said Lord Home. The other three peers had agreed earlier that he could have the easy ones. "Ted is irrevocably tied in the public mind to the dollar sterling." "Reggie, then. As Home Secretary he has..." "No," Lord Hailsham shook his head slowly. In the manner of a conjuror he produced a thin buff folder of papers which he passed to the Prime Minister, who quickly scanned the contents. "This Poulson chap?" asked Butler. "A thoroughly bad egg," the Lord Chancellor confirmed. "But this needn't get out." "Of course not," agreed the chief law officer, "we shall do everything possible to keep it quiet. But if it should leak out... Well, for a minister it would be 'man overboard'. But for a prime minister, a disaster for the whole government." "Well who does that leave?" asked Butler, feeling a little pressured at this point. Lord Stockton looked at his well manicured finger-nails. "There is one man in your cabinet, Rab. He's senior and by all accounts very sound on matters of finance. Highly intelligent..." "You can't mean..." "But I do." "He'll divide the cabinet! The country!" "He'll do no such thing," chided Lord Avon. "He'll do what Maurice and you did. One resigns, the other has a honeymoon with the electorate, goes to the country and Bob's your uncle." "He and the cabinet must understand the need for discipline going into the election. No divisiveness. Then after the election we see what happens," suggested Lord Hailsham. "After the election he'll have the entire cabinet at his throat!" exclaimed Butler. "Then after the election the five of us will have to pay him a little visit," said Lord Home. Wilfred stuck his head through the doorway again. "Prime Minister. Betty's got the President on the line now. But it's a bad connection, it sounds like water running." [If you'll just let me continue.] [1] Maurice H Macmillan did not accept his hereditary earldom until 1984 in OTL. In this ATL, where the cachet of a title is not tarnished by the holder being able to declaim, Macmillan decides to go to his reward sooner. - Syd Subject: Thaxted - Part 14: Eyes on the Prize Date: Sun, 09 Sep 2001 18:48:21 +1000 From: Sydney Webb Organization: Webb Family Newsgroups: soc.history.what-if Thaxted - Part 14: Eyes on the Prize "Keep your eyes on the prize, Hold on. Hold on." - Traditional folk song (Tuesday, 2 April 1968. Rather early in the morning.) Caroline de Camp Kennedy tossed restlessly in the chancellery double bed. She had known well-beforehand that she would be meeting Jimmy and Peggy at the cocktail party. She just hadn't expected it to affect her like this. She had tried to tell herself that she had married better than Peggy. How _she_ was now the wife of the cabinet member, Senator and now US ambassador, and, who knows, the next President of the United States of America. Whereas that scheming bitch, who had spiked her cocoa with laxatives all those years ago, all she had won for herself was a comic-opera lord and failed backbencher. But it was no good. Caroline was simply doing what all her in-laws, all those Kennedy women were doing, defining herself by the success of her husband. Looked at objectively, Peggy herself was a highly successful politician, a member of the shadow cabinet, who when Labour won the election that was due by next year would have her hands on the levers of power, reshaping the British economy along socialist lines. "Whereas I'm just Bobby's wife!" Bobby stirred. She hadn't meant to say it out loud. He placed a strong arm around her. "Honey, relax. London isn't so bad," he said, reassuringly, although unaware of what ailed her. "I don't have to commute to Washington, the pace of work as an ambassador is pretty relaxed, so I'm seeing loads of you and the children. And the kids love the international school. Most anytime we want we can pop down to the West End, see a show or the new Monroe flick. I know it's a bit topsy tervy at the moment with Lyndon staying here but he'll be flying out to Thailand after breakfast..." "It's not that darling," she gently pushed him away. He was a good man, but it was always so hard to get Bobby to understand. When he'd first become Attorney General he thought the job was to play gangbusters, like some latter-day Eliot Ness. She had to nudge and nudge him that the job could be more, that he could nibble away at entrenched inequality and privilege. "State's rights, honey!" he'd plead. Patiently she'd explain that there were already a number of Federal laws that would protect civil rights but there was no means to enforce them. Of course, there needed to be stronger Federal laws to protect the rights of the Blacks but all the laws in the world would be no good if the enforcement was simply left up to Sheriff Billy-Bob and his goons. There needed to be a Federal Police Force. At the time Bobby nearly rolled his eyes. "Honey, we can't have that. The public would never stand for it!" She had replied that it simply depended on how it was sold. After all, there already _was_ a Federal police agency - the FBI. However, that had traditionally been used against working class interests. Same with the McGarran Act[2]. What was needed now was an agency to work in favor of working class interests, in support of laws that protected the rights of working class Americans. Bobby had sighed, "There you go, honey, bringing 'class' into it again." But he knew when he was whupped. One thing about her country never ceased to amaze Caroline. Unlike Britain with her House of Lords, America had no constitutional body expressly designed to represent privilege and impede reform. Nevertheless, the Civil Rights Act[1] and the Federal Marshals Establishment Act were not passed until 1965, by which time Bobby was no longer Attorney General. Caroline had finally work out what was troubling her. She looked into her husband's eyes, as his head lay on the other pillow. "I want to